EG: Because, for your own sweet reasons, you beat Dickybird senseless. I want to know why.
Ewert waited for the reply. His adversary looked a hard man all right. Heavy build, broad shoulders, big shaven head and calm eyes. He'd have made dead meat of quite a few men outside.
JL: He owed me money. EG: Come off it!
JL: Quite a lot.
EG: Crap! Dragan tricked some of the officers. You knocked Dickybird out cold. You wanted to make him pay for knifing Steffansson.
Grens stood up, red in the face. Bending over Jochum, he lowered his voice.
EG: Pull yourself together, man. For once, we're on the same side. If you simply confirm that Dickybird did it, I promise I won't let on it was you who said. Get this: if no one in the unit tells us what happened, Steffansson's murderer will go free.
JL: I didn't see what happened.
EG: Give me a break.
JL: I didn't see a thing.
EG: Screw that.
JL: You can switch your machine off now.
Ewert turned to Sven, shrugged. Sven nodded. After fumbling for a bit, Ewert switched the tape recorder off.
'Satisfied now?'
Jochum checked that the tape had really stopped running, and then looked up. His face was tense.
'Grens, you know what gives here. Rule number one is
He got up and walked to the door. No one tried to stop him.
Jochum Lang's interrogation had lasted less than half an hour. It was still only quarter past eight. Ewert sighed. Not that he had expected anything other than silence. No one in prison ever told a cop anything. Fucking cons' honour. Cutting someone, no problem, but grassing – never. Honour my arse! He slapped his hand on the table. Sven jumped. 'What do you think, mate? What do we do now?' 'We haven't much choice.'
Ewert started the tape, ran it back to the beginning and listened to the interview again to check it. Jochum's voice, slow and indifferent. His own, angry and pressurised. It always surprised him to hear how loud and aggressive he sounded.
Sven listened too, looking at a distant point on the floor. He turned to Ewert.
'I think we should leave him alone for tonight. All we'll get is this kind of thing. He won't say any more than Jochum did. Let's just drop in, chat informally, that kind of thing. Harmless.'
Arne Bertolsson, the governor of Aspsas, decided that evening to isolate Unit H in its entirety, which meant keeping all the prisoners locked up in their cells.
Banged up, they ate, shat and counted the hours alone.
Meanwhile Ewert and Sven strolled along the empty corridor, inspecting the place where a man they had learned to respect, even like, had just been killed.
They looked over the broken furnishings that littered the cubicle where Jochum had silenced Dickybird by slamming his head against the wall. Torn wallpaper and traces of blood marked the spot. Mirror glass, bits of electronics crunched against the soles of their shoes. The sitting room was a mess of broken glass, water, sodden cards and dead fish, their shiny scales fading. The plastic flooring was slippery. Leaving damp footprints, they passed the cell doors.
There was a large puddle of blood at the end of the corridor. That was where Fredrik had fallen. They shook their heads at each other and followed the trail of blood into the shower-room. He must have been cut several times just after stepping inside. The white tiles glowed red near the washbasin.
They found Dickybird in bed in his cell. He was wearing only a pair of tracksuit bottoms. His face was badly cut, one eye had disappeared in swollen tissue. The gold chain gleamed on his chest. He grinned broadly at his visitors.
'Grensie himself. And his sidekick. Fuck's sake! Why the honour?'
The cell interested them. This prisoner had been around for some time, regarded this as his home and had made the bare room positively cosy. A small TV set, a coffee-maker, a couple of flowerpots. Even curtains, red and white checked cotton. One wall was covered in posters, and on the other was just one, hugely magnified photograph.
He noticed them noticing.
'My daughter. And here too.'
Dickybird pointed to a framed photo on the bedside table. A smiling little girl, her blonde hair in plaits, finished with neatly tied ribbons.
'Would you like a cuppa? Tea or coffee?'
'No thanks,' Ewert said. 'We've had some already. When we interviewed Jochum Lang.'
Dickybird appeared not to have heard the last bit.
'OK. I'll have some myself.' He busied himself with topping up the water in the kettle, tipping spoonfuls of tea leaves into a pot. 'Sit you down. Try the bed.'
They sat down. The cell was very tidy and smelled clean. He even had a room-scenter.
'Nicely fixed-up place you've got,' Ewert said, making a sweeping gesture.
'I've got a fair stretch and not that fucking much of a home outside.'
'Fancy that, curtains. And pot-plants.'
'Just like your home, innit, Grensie?'
Ewert clenched his jaw and the thought passed through Sven's head that he had no idea whether Ewert had plants and curtains at home. He had never visited his old colleague, strangely enough. Ewert had come for supper with himself and Anita several times, but had never asked them back.
Dickybird sipped the hot tea. Ewert waited until he had put the mug down.
'We've seen a lot of each other, Stig. Over the years.'
'That's a fair comment.'
'I remember you when you were in your teens. Picked you up in Blekinge that time you'd jammed an ice-pick into your uncle's balls.'
The images crowded back into Dickybird's mind. Per was there, bleeding. How he'd wanted that, cut the old bastard's balls off and laugh.
'You know you're under suspicion for having carved somebody again. Or don't you? You see, we think you might have cut Steffansson a couple of hours ago. Well and truly killed him, as it happens.'
Dickybird sighed and rolled his eyes heavenwards, acting out mock-innocence.
'Oh, don't I know it. I'm under suspicion. Like the rest of the lads in the unit.'
'I'm talking to you.'
'Give over, it's not as bad as that. All I'll tell you is that the peddo got what was coming to him.' Dickybird had turned serious. 'Fucking beast.'
Ewert heard, but didn't understand.
'Stig, are we on the same wavelength? I mean, you might call Fredrik Steffansson many things, but not a peddo. The reverse, rather. If anything.'
Dickybird had just lifted the mug of tea to his lips. Now he put it down, staring at the two policemen. When he spoke, his voice was rough, angry.
'What the fuck are you saying?'
Ewert registered the man's surprise and his mood change. This was no theatre.
'You heard me. Don't you ever watch the TV news?'
'Happens. So what?'
'You must have followed the reports about the dad who shot his little daughter's killer?'
