The Beast

IV

The whole of Tallbacka flared up the day the trial was concluded. The attack against the man who had exposed himself in the schoolyard twenty years before and been sentenced to a fine was the first of nine acts of violence against alleged paedophiles. The spate of criminal violence was in each case claimed to be an exertion of reasonable force.

Three of the mob attacks, all of which involved grievous bodily harm, led to the death of the victims.

The chief investigator (CI): I will start the interrogation now. Bengt Söderlund (BS): Fire ahead.

CI: The questions concern the events that followed the throwing of the petrol bombs. BS: Aha.

CI: I'm unhappy about your attitude.

BS: What would seem to be the trouble? CI: You appear sarcastic.

BS: If you don't fancy my answers I wouldn't half mind leaving now.

CI: We'll both stay here. I'm prepared to carry on for as long as it takes. This session will be finished faster if you reply to my questions properly. BS: So you say.

CI: What happened after the last bottle was thrown?

BS: The house caught fire.

CI: What did you do?

BS: I read aloud.

CI: What did you read?

BS: A court indictment.

CI: Pull yourself together, man!

BS: I read out a court's judgement.

CI: What judgement would that be?

BS: About the father from Strängnäs. He shot a paedophile who'd killed his daughter. It was what the court said about him.

CI: Why did you read that?

BS: Because society thought he did the right thing when he shot the paedophile. Get it? These perverts must be eliminated.

CI: After you'd read this, what did you do?

BS: I noticed that Flasher-Göran had jumped out. From the kitchen window.

CI: Then what did you do? BS: Set Baxter on him.

CI: You set your dog on him?

BS: Sure.

CI: And what did your dog do?

BS: Bit the fucker.

CI: Describe.

BS: Bit his arm, thighs. Had a couple of good goes at his face.

CI: For how long?

BS: Until I called Baxter off.

CI: Yes, yes. For how long?

BS: Two minutes, maybe three.

CI: Make up your mind.

BS: More like three. Yeah, three.

CI: And then what did you do? BS: We left.

CI: You left. Where did you go?

BS: Home. And we phoned for the fire brigade. That place was going like a bomb and we didn't want it to spread. It was fucking well next door, you know.

Göran from Tallbacka did not survive his injuries, notably a bite across his throat. The fatalities also included a man in Umeå, who had two previous convictions for sex offences. Passing by a playground on the edge of the town, he was set upon by four teenage boys wielding pieces of iron piping, and beaten to death.

The chief investigator (CI): I will start the tape recorder now. Ilrian Raistrovic (IR): Cool.

CI: Are you feeling better now?

IR: Yeah. I just needed, like, a break.

CI: We'll carry on then.

IR: Yeah, sure. No fucking problem.

CI: Did you hit more often than the rest of the gang?

IR: Dunno.

CI: That's what the others said.

IR: Must be OK then.

CI: Why did you hit him?

IR: Fucking peddo, he was asking for it.

CI: Peddo?

IR: Like he'd been at two small chicks, touched their tits, stuff like that. He had kids himself. They were his kid's pals, right?

CI: How did you hit him?

IR: Like, I hit. At him.

CI: How many times?

IR: Dunno.

CI: Try to guess.

IR: Like twenty. Maybe thirty.

CI: Until he died. IR: Yeah, I guess.

In Stockholm, two days later, a particularly gross act of violence was perpetrated against a drunk, who was surrounded by a group of shouting young men equipped with baseball bats.

The chief investigator (CI): Where were you sitting? Roger Karlsson (RK): On the other bench.

CI: What were you doing there?

RK: I was watching him. I know that guy. He's at it all the time. CI: At what?

RK: Doing it to females. Little ones, CI: What did he do?

RK: He screamed at them, there were three coming along. Calling them names. Whores.

CI: He shouted at them that they were whores? RK: He tried to grab their arses when they passed.

CI: Did he do it?

RK: He was too fucking slow. But he did try.

CI: What did you do?

RK: They ran away. He scared them. He always scares females.

CI: But what did you do?

RK: Let him have it. The bat. In his belly.

CI: Were you alone?

RK: Fuck, no. The others came along.

CI: What others?

RK: There were, like, some of us. Waiting, see?

CI: Did everyone bring a weapon?

RK: We all had bats.

CI: What did he do when you first hit him?

RK: He shouted something like, what's that you're doin'?

CI: What did you do?

RK: I shouted back. Told him he was a perv.

CI: And then what happened?

RK: Then we made mincemeat of him. All of us. It didn't take long.

CI: When did he die?

RK: I'd brought a sledgehammer too. When I hit him with that he was a goner.

CI: When did you use the hammer?

RK: Later. To make sure, see? CI: Make sure he was really dead?

RK: That's it. You're allowed to kill mad dogs. That's what they said in court.

The man was practically unidentifiable when the gang had finished with him, but two local police constables assumed, on the basis of what he was wearing, that he was a man called Gurra B, something of an established feature in the park. For the last thirty-odd years, he had sat around shouting and using foul language within the hearing of passing women.

They had taken their clothes off as soon as the front door closed behind them and made love as if they would never stop, holding on to each other, hot and sweaty, their bodies slippery, sticky, not letting go of the other for the rest of that day and the night that followed. Both behaved as if they feared that somebody would step into the room to take their nearness away and then they would die, as if feeling the other's bare skin on your own was not simply comforting but the only way to survive. Fredrik had never taken a woman in this needy way; he had to have her and stay close to her, she was a human being he must unite with absolutely. He inhaled her smells, caressed her, bored into her with his penis, but nothing satisfied him, she wasn't enough. He tried everything to get closer to her, bit her a few times, her buttock, thigh, shoulder. She laughed, but he was serious about wanting all of her, in him.

Fredrik stayed in the house that week, while the journalists were waiting outside with their eager smiles and cameras and questions. He was determined to hide until they'd gone away. Twice Micaela went out to shop for food and they stayed glued to her side all the way to town and back. They followed her into the supermarket, pursuing her up and down the aisles and asking her questions about how he felt. Micaela kept her promise to say nothing. When she got home and closed the door behind her, loud voices were calling her name.

He avoided Marie's room. Yes, she was there. Though she wasn't, not for real. The room kept demanding his attention, he couldn't put it out of his mind, even though he didn't want to think about it. They must move, sooner or later; if there was any life worth living it must be somewhere else, not here, among the remains of the past.

He was free, but still captive. He didn't read the papers or watch TV, it was all too much. A girl had been killed and a father had killed the killer; surely that was all there was to it. He could not see why the public interest should demand yet more publicity.

He had had a life once, but not any more. And they were trying to rob him of the tiny existence he claimed by making it public.

He had clung to Micaela as fiercely on the second day as on the first. They made love many times, mingling energy and grief and comfort and guilt and fear with their love- making. The last few times the act had become almost mechanical intercourse; they were pressing and squeezing in ways which they had learned would please the other and bring on an orgasm quickly. Too tired to look at or truly feel each other, the whole thing had become tense and nervous. In the end they both felt like crying as they looked together at his penis entering her, powerless to change what they were doing and too exhausted to do it again, although they knew that the driving, suffocating anxiety would still be there when they lay back, drained.

On the third day he started to drink. He felt like dying, the way he always imagined he would feel when his body had weakened and death came close. Surely dying is easier if your body has given in? He tried to keep such thoughts away and the alcohol did its job, paralysing his will and separating him from the day, his hovering fears and his damned loneliness.

Since then he had stayed in bed most of the time, though sleep was not to be even thought of. When she was there he held her. Sex was beyond him; he was too fatigued even to go and get a bottle, even to eat. Micaela wanted to call a doctor, but could not persuade him however hard she tried. Fredrik had said no to bereavement counselling and a session with a psychologist, and he wouldn't see a doctor either.

Maybe that was why he hardly reacted when Kristina Björnsson phoned at half past eleven in the evening. They had exchanged a glance saying 'journalists' when the phone rang, but in the end Micaela had answered.

Once she had understood what Kristina was saying she began arguing hysterically. The lawyer seemed to be reassuring, in a legal way, but as Fredrik listened he felt unresponsive, dulled. He could not take an interest in all this emotion. Nothing was and nothing mattered.

The main message from Kristina was that the prosecution had appealed and the case would be tried again in a higher court. One consequence was that he would be arrested again the next day and put in a remand prison cell. He took this in, with a sudden sense of relief.

So they would take his daily existence away from him.

They would take his days and nights, hour by hour, turning time into a process that bypassed him and therefore lacked reality for him. Of course, he would still be forced to participate. It would help him to avoid seeing what was really going on here, at home. Afterwards was another matter.

When the call ended, he went back to bed. He kissed Micaela intensely, and knew he would try to make love to her again.

It was a black car. Their cars were always black, and had double rear-view mirrors and tinted glass that you couldn't see through from the outside. Three plainclothes policemen had picked him up early in the morning. He recognised two of them, the older one with the limp and his younger, polite companion. The third one was a big young man, who drove the car.

The police didn't harass him and waited quietly while he held Micaela until he finally felt he could bear to let go of her. No one spoke as the car travelled at speed towards Stockholm with an officer on a motorbike in front and another black car following them.

After a while Grens told the driver to lower the radio volume and play a CD he'd brought. Sundkvist asked if that was really necessary and Grens mumbled irritably. He carried on grousing until the driver said oh, hand over the fucking disc.

Grens had closed his eyes and was rocking slowly to and fro.

Siw Malmkvist. Frederik was sure of it.

For all your cheating talk about cars and stuff,

I might as well walk and leave you in a huff…

Fredrik shuddered. The text was so stupid, and Siw's jolly-hockeysticks voice belonged to the past, the '50s and early '60s, to a less knowing, more naive Sweden with high hopes for the future. Or maybe that lost innocence was just a growing myth. For him at least those years had meant his father and the beatings and his mother smoking her eternal Camels, while she looked the other way. No Siw then, to help sing the sorrows away, and she was no good now either; her world was all lies and escapism. It was on his tongue to ask the old Siw fan next to him what he was escaping from, and what stone had he been living under all this time.

Siw sang all the way, all the fifty minutes it took to get to Kronoberg remand prison. Grens didn't open his eyes once. The other two were staring into the distance, obviously lost in their own thoughts.

Then the car turned into Berg Street and they saw the crowd.

Many more demonstrators this time. If it had been about two hundred then, outside the Old Court, it was more like five hundred now.

They were facing the prison, shouting in unison, waving placards and hitting out with them, screaming abuse, spitting, throwing stones towards the gate from time to time. It only took a few seconds for someone to spot the outrider and the two black cars, and a few seconds more for an advance guard to start running in their direction. The first arrivals grabbed each other's hands and lay down on the ground in an uninterrupted ring round the three vehicles, preventing them from driving anywhere.

The large young driver looked around for a moment and grabbed the radio.

'Urgent assistance required! Repeat, urgent! More units to Berg Street.'

A voice came back almost immediately.

'How many?'

'Hundreds! Demonstrators, outside Kronoberg prison.'

'Units on their way. With you any moment now.'

'Risk of prisoner escape!'

'Drive on! Drive on!'

Fredrik stared at the people outside the car windows, heard their shouting and read their placards. What was all this in aid of? He didn't understand. He didn't know these people. What did they want with his name and his story? It was none of their business what he had done, it had been his battle, and his very own hell. Lots of these people were lying on the ground, risking life and limb. For what? Did they really know? Did they think he was grateful? He hadn't asked for this.

There was no difference between the demonstrators and the journalists camping outside his gate. They extracted life from the lives of others; now they were using him for their own purposes, it was his turn. Why this need? It wasn't as if they had all lost their only child, or aimed a gun at another human being and shot to kill. He wished he had the courage to wind the window down, ask them about these things and force them to meet his eyes.

But the four of them inside the car sat as if paralysed, under siege. The big young man at the wheel was obviously stressed, breathing heavily and making meaningless gestures, alternately releasing the handbrake and shifting through the gears. Grens and Sundkvist seemed utterly calm and still, just waiting patiently.

Then the voice came over the radio.

'Alert all cars. Assistance required! Go to Kronoberg prison, Berg Street entrance. Demonstrators, about five hundred. Stone-throwing. Please disperse. Nothing else. And take your personal opinions home with you.'

Fredrik realised that Grens was observing him, watching for his reaction. Nothing doing. Fredrik had heard what they'd all heard; he was astonished, but showed nothing and said nothing.

The young driver changed gear to reverse. Raced the engine. Released the brake and let the car move back ten- odd centimetres, as if to test the courage of the demonstrators.

They stayed put. And they screamed.

He shifted to first gear and let the car crawl forward for a metre, no more, again racing the engine. They stayed, and instead of screaming they shouted out their contempt in sing-song voices. Fucking cops. Filthy pigs.

Suddenly some of them got up and walked towards the car. One had a stone. He threw it at the rear window. The glass broke and the stone bounced against the seat between Fredrik and Ewert. It fell to the floor after hitting the driver's seat. Fredrik felt splinters of glass cutting the back of his neck. It hurt. He looked at Grens and saw blood flowing down his cheek.

The driver shouted what the fuck what the fuck, pulled out his handgun and wound down the window. Directing it skywards, he fired a warning shot. The people close to the car threw themselves to the ground. He kept the gun in place for a little longer and then something struck his arm, making him lose his grip on it. It fell, and a young man, maybe twenty, not much older, picked it up, held it with both hands and pointed it towards the driver's face.

'Drive! Fuck's sake! Drive!' Ewert howled.

The driver had a gun held to his head. In front of him were people lying on the ground.

He hesitated.

The bullet passed close to his left ear and went through the windscreen in front of him. Now he heard nothing any more. He focused on a tree at the end of the street and put his foot down. Voices cried out and the car bumped as he drove it over human bodies. He left Berg Street at the same moment as the police buses arrived.

The demonstrators got up and ran towards the new vehicles, packed with policemen in full riot control gear, who found themselves locked in, surrounded. The buses shook as the crowd threw themselves against them, rocked them a couple of times and then pushed them over on their sides.

The men outside lined up, some with their trousers down. When the flak-jacketed police officers crawled out, they were pissed on.

He wasn't put in the same cell. This one was on another floor, and higher up. Apart from that, it looked identical: the same size, the same furnishings, a bed, a table and a washbasin. He had changed into the sack-like prison uniform. The same restrictions applied: no papers, no radio, no TV and no visitors.

He didn't mind at all.

There was no way this kind of thing would break him. This was how it was. He didn't want to read the papers anyway, or meet anybody. He didn't want to long for anything.

When they escorted him to his cell, another prisoner had spoken to him. Fredrik recognised him by sight; he was one of the nation's pet criminals. An engaging character, who charmed the public but seemed unable to stop himself from committing some simple-minded new crime every time he was released from prison. Maybe he was trying to avoid the other society, the one outside the walls. This prison pro looked startled and then walked straight up to Fredrik, slapped his back and said that as far as he was concerned Fredrik was a hero. 'You mustn't let the bastards get to you,' he said, adding, 'If the screws don't treat you right, just let us know and we'll have it fixed so you're looked after properly.'

The screws did treat him right. It might have been their own decision or there might have been forces pushing them, but there was definitely less of the staring through the bloody observation panel, and he got mugs of coffee more often than he should've, and when he was taken to the wire cage on the roof for his exercise session he got more than his allotted hour; he knew that and the screw knew that. Some days he actually got a double ration, two hours spent behind a fence with razor wire on top, but with the sky above.

Every second day Kristina Björnsson visited him, speaking about documentation and strategy. Actually there was nothing more to present now than there had been the first time round, and the arguments in the Court of Appeal would be no different from those she had presented previously. Her reason for coming along was to keep Fredrik's courage up, give him greetings and messages from Micaela and try to persuade him that there was a future for him.

He appreciated it. She was just as able and as kind as he had been told she would be.

Still, he saw through her efforts to cheer him up. This time it would not be like the magistrates' court, where the one reservation about freeing him had come from the only person with legal training, the judge. This time everyone with any influence on his sentence would be lawyers, men and women who evaluated reality in terms of the written law. What mattered this time was paragraphs and praxis. He was resigned to a heavy sentence.

He told Kristina that, which upset her very much. She told him that this in itself would condemn him, because the court could sense when the accused expected a conviction. It had the same effect as a confession. And the reverse was true too. There were several examples, many of which he recognised. She had defended clients who had committed the most imbecile crimes, but who went free because they felt they should, and what they felt became shared by everyone in the courtroom.

The duty officer knocked on his door. He had brought a tray of food, meat and two veg, a glass of juice. Fredrik shook his head, he simply wasn't interested. Yes, it looked very tasty, but no, he wasn't hungry. He felt eating was somehow disgusting, and a betrayal, as if to eat was to pretend that nothing had really changed. If he didn't eat, he didn't join in. This was not his life. He had had no choice in the matter.

When the trial began, he was transported every morning to a new high-security court, also located in Berg Street. The threat from demonstrators had been noted and acted on. This time the interrogations in court were shorter and the questioning stricter. Some witness statements were replaced by tape recordings. He sat in the same place as before and gave in principle the same answers. He felt they were all in a play and that the last time round had been a rehearsal. Now it was time for the premiere and their performances would get expert reviews. He tried his best to sit straight, keep calm and look convinced of his right to be freed in the end. The last bit was hard, because he didn't care. He wasn't at all sure that he wanted to go back home. Could they read that? It must show.

The trial took only three days.

He was done with longing. Every night he lay on the bed in his cell, trying to trace something worth living for in the piss-coloured ceiling.

One hour.

He didn't have many friends, not now and not ever, really. The ones he remembered lived far away now, in other towns, and didn't share his daily life. If he did time in prison, it would not change his relationship with them that much.

One hour.

His parents were gone. He had no brothers or sisters.

One hour.

He had Micaela. He loved her, surely he did? But she was still young and it wasn't right for her to have to be with someone in endless mourning for his lost child.

One hour.

Micaela said that she wanted to be with him, always. Of course he believed her when she said that, but it could so easily change in the future. One day she would have to go on, to leave him behind. No one could bear having a violated five-year-old pushed down her throat every day.

One hour.

That ceiling really was just the same colour as urine.

One hour

So strange.

One hour.

He had been running all his life, trying to pack every minute with significance, fearful of facing emptiness and of not existing any more.

One hour.

He had kept his days fully booked, from restlessness and fear of being alone.

One hour.

Back then, when he depended on people near him, and sought them out.

One hour.

Then it all changed. He had no need for the fucking here and now. He had what he needed here. That piss-yellow ceiling. Time on his hands. His thoughts. He was powerless to influence or change anything and it made him calm, calmer than he had ever been, like someone dead.

The court took almost a week to arrive at his sentence. It was postponed twice; every note mattered and every word was charged with meaning. This was a judgement that would be exposed to media scrutiny from the word go. The broadsheets would print the statement in full and legal experts with screen savvy would analyse it on TV. The case of the dad who shot the murderer of his five-year-old daughter would be followed by people who shared his grief over the loss of a child by people who thought murder was murder, never mind who was killed by people who celebrated his courage, which removed a threat from society which its forces of law and order had been unable to cope with by people who saw his act as an indefensible vengeance and felt only a long prison sentence would be sufficient warning against private militias by people who had tormented and killed presumed sex offenders, on the basis of the sentence reached in the first instance.

On the Saturday, at fourteen minutes past nine in the morning, the court's deliberations were complete. Copies of the sentence in its entirety were available from the porters' room outside the secure courtroom in Stockholm Old Court.

The journalists were queuing early, mobile phones at the ready to contact the editors and with photographers in tow to record images of the bundles of paper from every angle. The prosecutor was there, and the defence lawyer, and a handful of curious onlookers.

Fredrik was told through the observation panel he hated so much. The officer who had favoured him with extra coffee and exercise time opened the flap and whispered loudly to him that it was a fucking disgrace, there would be a riot, that was for sure. A ten-year stretch.

The Court of Appeal had sentenced him to ten years in prison.

Dickybird felt depressed about beating up Hilding like that; the guy was dead meat now. Why had Hilding been such a stupid bastard? It was fucking idiotic, doing all that stuff. He'd had it coming to him. Nicking all the kif, for a start, then hanging out with that bloody hard man and getting rat-arsed on the brew from the fire extinguisher. Hilding must've known he'd get a working over, had to. Fuck's sake, what would the lads say if Hilding got away with the lot and kept farting about as usual, without being taught a lesson? No way. No way! But he shouldn't have smashed the little shit up, not like that. Hilding had looked a right misery. They'll stitch him back together again, that's for sure, but he won't come back here. He'll transfer to Tidaholm, maybe. Or to Hall. That's how they always handled it.

And that fucking peddo Axelsson got away when he was warned off. He's hiding in seg now.

Not many of the gang left. Hilding off to the sick wing. Bekir on release. Skåne is still around, and Dragan, but that's no fucking company. Then there's the Russian and all the other useless sods.

He felt bad about it. He shouldn't have kept hitting the poor guy, just stopped when he'd got a bit hurt.

He looked out though the window.

Still pissing out there. No change for weeks. The weather's gone from bad to worse, first weeks and weeks when it's so hot your dick sags, and then more weeks of raining too hard to stick your nose outside. Bloody awful.

The rain was pouring off the tall wall and the goalposts were cracking.

Two men were out in the yard, trudging round the track. He couldn't make out who they were, in their raincoats with hoods pulled down over their foreheads.

In here four of the lads were playing pool. The Russian wandered about, grunting from time to time, chalking his cue and sinking some balls. Then Janoz, more grunting; he sank the black and lost.

Dickybird had never liked pool, strictly for the birds, all that poking about with a long stick on a green tablecloth. Cards now, that was different. But not today. Didn't feel like it. Besides, Jochum was at the table playing poker with Skåne and Dragan, dealing and bluffing. It wasn't the same when Hilding wasn't around.

Nothing else to do, he had to get out, some fresh air, never mind the fucking rain.

When he reached the exit, he slowed down to check out the three prison officers, who were chatting inside their cubicle, the lazy bastards, sitting on their arses all day and getting their dough monthly, what an easy life.

He couldn't see them, but their voices were loud, excited. The sound was muffled and hard to make sense of, but now and then words and phrases were clear enough.

One word got to him. Sex offender. That came again several times, and then there was more. Long sentence… with Oscarsson… pervs' unit.

Fuck's sake. What were they on about? Not another one, hadn't the screws got the point when Axelsson ran, because they'd traced his ID and got hold of his indictment and would've killed the bastard if he hadn't got the wind up?

Usually the screws went about like zombies, rattling with their fucking keys and saying fuck all, but now they were pissing themselves, nobody shut up for a second. Hero. Murdered. Sex offender.

Dickybird could hardly stand still. One more mother- fucking peddo. Here!

His face had become flushed and angry, rage filled his whole body.

Then he heard a chair being pulled back and moved quickly away from his listening point, but he was still close enough to hear their last sentences as they came out, waving their hands about, clearly very agitated. One of them asked, why send the hero here? Someone agreed; he didn't get it either, cons with sentences that long didn't usually come to Aspsås. First one said that anyway the guy had done his thing, he wouldn't attack anyone else.

They turned to enter the unit, and the Russian shouted, 'Screws!'

Dickybird went to pick up a raincoat and a pair of welly boots and went off into the streaming rain. Rage was bubbling up from deep inside him; it felt as if he was suffocating. He was shaking.

Now they'll fucking see! That's final! Trying to push another peddo into his unit, no way, they'd better think again; if that kidfucker came here he wouldn't leave alive.

Fredrik decided to pee in the basin, rather than asking the guard out there to take him to the toilet. He'd just have to deal with their questions about his sentence.

Ten years.

He couldn't get his mind round it. Kristina had visited him yesterday afternoon, wanting to go through the sentence, explain the motivations and persuade him that they should appeal again, take his case to the Supreme Court. She wanted to test the limits of the plea of 'reasonable force' and set up a precedent. He had refused, said he simply wasn't interested. He had had enough. Chewing over past events was meaningless to him. Prison, no prison, what the hell, it didn't bother him.

Ten years from now he'd be almost fifty.

He washed his hands and went to stand in the middle of his cell.

His little girl had been fouled, torn to pieces by a sadistic killer, who would have done what he wanted with other little girls if Fredrik hadn't killed him. The consequence for him was ten years of solitude, isolated from the world. He had to laugh.

He kicked the bed, laughing until his chest hurt.

The prison officer, still the man who had made Fredrik his favourite, pulled back the flap in the door.

'Hey! What's going on here?'

'Why worry?'

'You're making a fucking din.'

'Is laughing forbidden?'

'Laugh away. I just don't want you to do something stupid.'

'Leave me alone. I won't do anything I shouldn't.'

'It's that sentence of yours. Hearing they've got a long stretch can make people do all sorts. Wrong things.'

'I'm fine, honestly. Just laughing.'

'Good. Anyway, I'll be back soon. Time to pack.'

'How do you mean, pack?'

'Your placement has come through.'

He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around. Ceiling, walls, floor, all grimy and familiar. Now he had to leave.

Pack what? His soap, toothbrush and toothpaste went into a plastic bag. There, done.

The officer knocked and opened the door. He was young, about twenty-five, with hair like a shaving brush and a ring in one nostril. He was a musician, or, at least, a wannabe. He spoke about this quite a lot, to show that guards weren't just official bodies, but real human beings with dreams of their own. He was just hanging on in here, he'd explain, while he and his mates in the group were plotting to get a recording contract. He'd keep waiting, at least until he was thirty. Then he'd be too old.

Now he put his hand on Fredrik's shoulder.

'Listen. I'm sorry. You know what I think.'

'Yes, yes. But I'm not really that interested.'

'It's a crazy world, but locking you up is the worst.'

'Never mind.' 'We all agree, you know. And I mean all. Officer or prisoner, it makes no difference. I don't think we've agreed on anything before.'

'Look, I've packed,' Fredrik said and held out the plastic bag.

'True, it can't be much comfort to you that we're all rooting for you.'

'I'm ready to leave.'

'You should've been freed.'

'Let's go.'

'You'll see, there are quite a few people out and about. Lining the roads to where you're going.'

'I don't know where that is.'

'There's enough of us who do, don't you fear. Word gets about. There'll be protests, loud and clear.'

'You know, all this is no comfort. You were right about that.'

Then he was handed back his own clothes and left alone again. He changed into what he would wear for a couple of hours at most. Then his things would be locked into a cupboard for ten years and he would be given the other kind of gear, the prison suit that hung loosely on him.

The door opened; no one knocked this time. Two uniformed police, two prison officers, and behind them Grens and Sundkvist.

'What's this? Why?'

Grens looked blank, pretending not to understand.

'Why the crowd?'

Sven, who wasn't into pretending, told him.

'We can't take any risks. We're escorting you to Aspsås prison. There might be some trouble on the way.'

'Aspsås?' Fredrik was startled. 'Isn't that where… he was there, wasn't he?'

'Yes, but you'll go to another unit, a normal one. Lund was kept in a special unit for sex offenders.'

Fredrik took a step towards Sven and the two policemen moved forward, grabbing his arms. Fredrik backed into the cell, shaking his arms until they let go.

'You mentioned risks? Do you think I'm going to try to escape?'

'Your transport will have a police escort. That's all I can tell you at present.'

It was still early in the morning. It was raining, the drops tapping insistently on the loose piece of guttering. That sound had accompanied his thoughts for several days now.

He might even miss it.

It rained so hard that Fredrik got practically soaked walking the short distance to the prison transfer van that was waiting with its engine running outside the Kronoberg gate. He took longer to get there because his leg-irons cut him when he tried to lengthen his stride.

He was considered unlikely to repeat his crime or to try to escape, but nonetheless his transfer had been classified as a maximum security operation. Two police cars with rotating blue lamps drove ahead of the prison van and behind were two uniformed officers on motorbikes. The violent demonstration outside Kronoberg had taken place only a few weeks ago and was remembered vividly and fearfully. Police guns in the wrong hands, demonstrators being run over, overturned buses, humiliated police. It was too much, no more of that.

Fredrik sat in the back seat, flanked by Sundkvist and Grens. He had begun to feel close to these two men, who knew so much about him. They had turned up at The Dove and interrogated people there, stood by Marie's body in the forensic mortuary and attended her funeral, decently dressed in black. They had collected him for his retrial, played Siw for an hour and delivered him back to remand prison. And now again on this journey, the last one. Afterwards they'd be finished with him.

He ought to make contact with them. Say something, anything.

But it was too hard.

There was no need.

But they might have felt something similar, because Sundkvist, always the more forthcoming, started speaking.

'I'm forty years old. My birthday was on the day your daughter was murdered. I had wine and a cake in the car, but I still haven't celebrated.'

This baffled Fredrik. Was this man pulling his leg? Did he want to be pitied? He couldn't think of anything to say.

But Sundkvist didn't seem interested in starting a dialogue.

'I've been in the force for twenty years, that is, for my entire adult life. It's a weird job, but it's all I know. All I'm trained to do.'

They had a fifty-kilometre drive ahead, maybe thirty-five or forty minutes of sitting side by side, but Fredrik had had enough. No more talk. He wanted to close his eyes and start counting the hours. Ten years to go.

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 Aspsås 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.

Later that afternoon the door was unlocked. He had waited for six hours by then. Two bulky prison officers, truncheons at their belts, marched in with heavy steps. New prisoners were the order of the day for them and they were all set to show who was in charge round here. Respect was due, and proper conduct. One of them, he wore spectacles with blue frames, leafed through a document he had brought.

'Steffansson, that's you, right?'

'Yes.'

'Right. You'll come with us now. We'll take you to your unit.'

Fredrik staying where he was.

'Listen, I've been sitting here for a long time. Getting on for seven hours now.'

'And?'

'Well, why?'

'No whys about it.'

'Are you trying to get a message to me?'

'What?'

'Is there some reason for making me wait?'

'No reason, pal. You wait till you're told to go. That's all.'

Fredrik sighed and got up.

'Where am I going?'

'I said. To your unit.'

'What kind of unit is it?'

'Normal.'

'Sure. But what kind of people are kept there?'

The officers stared at him, trying to stay calm. Then blue specs looked around the bare cell.

'You're a one for asking questions.'

'I want to know.'

'What can I tell you? It's a normal unit. The lads are doing time for every kind of offending. Except sex. That kind we house separately, in specialist units.' He shrugged. 'You'll have to accept this, Steffansson. The unit is your home now. And the lads are company.'

They walked Fredrik along a smelly basement corridor, slowly enough to let him take in the colourful daubs on the walls, presumably meant to be prisoner therapy, but otherwise meaningless images. He counted the steps and calculated that the corridor was at least four hundred metres long.

Every time they passed through doors the routine was the same: a glance towards the camera, a clicking sound as the guard flicked the switch in his cubicle and a nod to the camera, a kind of thanks.

Now and then they met other prisoners being escorted somewhere. They nodded to him and he nodded back.

In the last section of the corridor they turned into a stairway with a sign saying Unit H. His unit, he assumed. Inside the smell of food was the first thing he noticed. Frying something, fish maybe.

'They've just finished supper,' one of the officers said. 'You'll get yours later.'

Another ugly, bleak corridor. Off it he could see a TV room, where a group of prisoners were sitting about, some on chairs and sofas, others playing cards at a table. Ahead, the corridor narrowed and there were cell doors along both its sides. Most of the doors were open. At the far end was another room with a table-tennis table.

'You're in cell fourteen, that's over there, almost at the end.'

The card-players looked up when he walked past. One of them, who had dark hair and wore a gold chain round his neck, had been speaking loudly. Now he fell silent and fixed his eyes on Fredrik. The others consisted of one big one, with muscles like a body-builder and long hair tied at the back of his neck; opposite him a foreigner of some kind, short and dark-skinned and moustachioed, maybe a Turk or a Greek; and the fourth man was one of those emaciated types who had junkie written all over them.

His cell door was open. Apart from being slightly larger, it looked exactly like the one he had left in the remand prison. Same bare furnishings, same barred window, same gloomy colours, dirty pale green and diluted piss yellow. The bed wasn't made. At one end a rolled-up blanket, one sheet and a pillow without a pillowcase.

He reacted as he had this morning, slapped his hand against the wall and started to laugh. The pain went away for a moment.

The officer fingered his blue specs.

'You're laughing. What's up?'

'Nothing's up. Is laughing forbidden?'

'I thought you were having a breakdown or whatever.'

Fredrik started making the bed. He wanted to close the door, lie down, rest, stare at the ceiling.

'Hey. You were right before, you know.'

Fredrik looked at the officer.

'You were kept waiting in reception for quite a long time. Now, do you want to shower? I'll get you a towel if you do.'

'Why not? OK, yes.'

'Hang on then. I'll be back.'

Fredrik held out a hand.

'Wait. Is it safe?'

'Safe?'

'I mean, safe to shower. Or will somebody have a go? You know.'

The officer grinned.

'Take it easy, Steffansson. No fear. No poofs or pervs in straight Swedish prisons. Nobody will try to fuck you in the shower.'

Fredrik stopped making the bed, sat down on it to wait, counting the lines in a long row that someone had drawn with red biro on the skirting board. He had got as far as one hundred and sixteen when the officer came back with a towel and a pair of plastic flip-flops.

Outside his cell two men shook hands with him and said they lived next door. From the card table voices were raised in an argument. The junkie was nagging about how there was one king too many in the deck and the man with the gold chain told him to shut it. Then he noticed Fredrik standing there and stared at him; his eyes were looking mad. He hated, and Fredrik could not work out why he should.

Then he was alone in a large tiled room with four showers. He closed the door to shut out all sounds and turned on the water, which would help him to absent himself for a while.

Dickybird checked out the new one. He remembered what the screws had been saying, how excited they had been. When the perv came out with his towel, he suddenly put his hand down in mid-game.

'Got to go to the john. Fucking nuisance. Hey, Skåne!'

'What's that?'

'You play, but don't miss a trick.'

He gave Skåne his cards and went off towards the toilets. A quick glance to make sure the players were staying put, the coast was clear, then he went on to the shower-room. He stayed there for a minute maybe, not much longer.

It had sounded like a blow against the door. At least that was how the first prison officer on the scene described it afterwards. As if someone had struck the closed door to be heard, to be let out. When he saw Fredrik come out, or rather fall out, the first thing he noticed was that the prisoner was holding his hand pressed against his lower stomach area. That was where the knife had cut most deeply, where the heaviest flow of blood was coming from. The officer rang the alarm and ran towards the injured man, who was lying on the floor trying to say something, with blood being expelled rhythmically from his mouth. When words would not form, he had looked towards Dickybird Lindgren with fear in his eyes. That was how the officer described it; he called the look in the dying man's eyes fearful, or frightened. Two colleagues had turned up on the run and together they had stopped the bleeding. Then someone felt for his pulse.

They pulled him up from the floor, all agreeing that they were lifting a dead body.

The cards were in untidy piles on the table. The game ended immediately when the new prisoner fell to the floor bleeding. They knew enough about what the blade of a sharp knife could do to a man's insides, realised this one was a goner and that there'd be trouble.

Jochum hovered at the far end of the corridor. He was sweating. His shaven skull was glistening. He had just welcomed the new inmate, shaken the guy's hand and said that he had followed the whole thing on TV, felt bad about it and would willingly help with whatever. And now there was the brave dad, dead on the floor.

He walked quickly past the officers and across to the card-players. With his face centimetres away from Dickybird's he hissed out the words.

'What was that in aid of?'

Dickybird licked his lips.

'Mind your own fucking business.'

'You stupid bastard… do you know who that was? The guy you did in?' Jochum had raised his voice.

Dickybird was smiling now, and turned to face the other man.

'Course I fucking know. Another peddo. A beast. But now he won't fuck about with little kids no more.'

The unit door was pulled open. Fifteen officers in full riot gear. Helmets with visors down, shields, black overalls. The emergency squad almost encircled the unit inmates.

'You all know the score!'

Jochum pushed Dickybird to the side and looked at the screw, who was shouting at the top of his voice and banging on the table with his truncheon.

'We want no hassle! You know what to do. Bugger off into your cells! One at a time!'

The prisoners in the furthest cells filed away first, followed by two officers. Each cell door was locked. Next, two men who had been in the kitchen were sent off. Everyone left quietly. The whole unit was silent.

The officer in charge pointed to one of the card-players on the sofa.

'You next.'

Skåne rose, glaring at the screws. He hated them, always, and gave them the finger before he moved off.

It was Dickybird's turn.

'You.'

He stayed where he was.

'Forget it.'

'Move!'

Dickybird stood up, but instead of walking towards the cell corridor he bent over, grabbed the table and tipped it so that it fell against the line-up of guards, showering their black-booted feet with cards. Then he turned, leapt over the back of the sofa and, in a few strides, got to a large aquarium along the wall.

'Fucking fascist pigs! No peace for a game of cards! Now you're gonna get it!'

As he howled this he placed his hands on either side of the aquarium and pushed. The panes of glass gave. The entire glass box disintegrated and four hundred litres of water gushed towards the emergency squad.

As the helmeted men ran to get him, he had already managed to grab one of the pool cues and waved it about crazily, hitting out and striking the first officer to get near him hard on his neck. Then he made a dash to the duty guards' cubicle, locked the door and set about wrecking it. Everything was kicked and beaten to pieces, the TV set, the communication mikes, the fridge. Lamp, flowerpot, mirror. When they managed to break the door open, his long weapon forced them to attack behind raised shields. They formed a circle, walling him in.

The senior officer had stayed in the corridor.

'Bag him there. Off to solitary,' he commanded.

The four prisoners who had not been marched off to their cells were watching Dickybird's attack of manic rage and its inevitable end. Jochum checked out the situation wearily, the unbreakable glass cubicle walls, the scattered screws. He mumbled something in Dragan's ear.

Dragan got the message and suddenly ran towards one of the officers outside the cubicle and kicked him hard between the legs. The man fell with a scream and his nearby colleagues turned to see. The momentary confusion was all Jochum needed. He crashed his fist into the temple of a man blocking his way, broke through the ring outside the cubicle and strode in to stand by Dickybird's side.

'Now, Jochum, tjavon ! We'll make the pigs work! Let's beat the hell out of them!'

Dickybird felt strong again with the big man at his side, and started waving the cue towards the hated uniforms. He didn't notice Jochum's arm moving, only felt the fist that struck his face, then his midriff.

'What the fuck…?' He was bending over, whimpering.

Jochum grabbed the crouching body next to him and ran it into the wall, head first. By the time the officers got to him, Dickybird was unconscious.

Ewert Grens slammed the car door shut and turned to Sven.

'No end to it. All fucking summer, and they're still at it.'

Sven stared at the ground. A stone. He wanted to kick it.

'I told Jonas my case was over. Done with. The dad had been locked up. Do you know what Jonas said? He said it was brill. Totally brill that the dad was in prison, because it was only fair. But it was fair that he would get out sometime soon, too. His girl had been murdered first, after all. Now I don't know what I tell him. Not that he doesn't know; the telly news people won't stop broadcasting this.'

They had reached the small door next to the main gate. Ewert rang the bell.

'Yes?'

'Grens and Sundkvist. City police.'

'I recognise you by now.'

They crossed the parking lot for Aspsås staff; Bergh just waved them on.

They stopped in the large entrance hall. The door to the visitors' room they had booked stood open. It wasn't exactly welcoming. Ewert gestured vaguely towards the plastic-covered mattress on the bed and the roll of kitchen paper. He was sickened by being in the place where the inmates were allowed to entertain their women once a month, shagging until some of their wretchedness was forgotten for a while.

They shifted the table to the centre of the room, put two chairs along one side and went out to fetch a third chair, then set up the tape recorder and two microphones.

He was escorted by two officers. Ewert greeted them, and then turned to the escort. 'Wait outside, please.'

A man wearing a pair of odd, blue-framed spectacles objected noisily to the order. 'We should stay in here.'

'No. If we need you we'll let you know. This interrogation is no spectator sport.'

Ewert Grens (EG): I'm turning on the recorder now.

Jochum Lang (JL): Fine.

EG: Please state your full name.

JL: Jochum Hans Lang.

EG: Good. And do you know why we are here?

JL: No.

Ewert glanced at Sven, feeling tired already. He would need help, and soon. This bugger didn't want to cooperate. He knew, but didn't want to.

EG: You must answer the questions. For instance, tell us why Fredrik Steffansson fell forward when he managed to open the shower-room door. And next, why Steffansson was alive one minute and dead the next.

For a minute or so the room was silent. Ewert's eyes were fixed on Jochum, and the big man's were on the barred window.

EG: Enjoying the view?

JL: Yes.

EG: Fuck's sake, Jochum! We know Dickybird knifed Steffansson.

JL: Good for you.

EG: It's not news. We know.

JL: I said, good for you. Why question me?

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 don't grass. You're finished if you do, never mind what's up. So listen hard now. Yes, Grens, we know who used the blade on Steffansson. That bastard will be on his way out of here soon enough. Feet first. Think about it. And now the goons outside can take me back.'

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 Aspsås, 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?'

'Followed, well, I wouldn't say that. I don't like stuff like that. You know, what with this little one and all.' He looked briefly at the blonde girl in the photo. 'I didn't watch a lot. Enough to get the message. That dad was a regular fucking hero. No question. Pervs like that should be shot, all of them. Beasts. What's all that got to do with anything?'

Ewert and Sven exchanged a glance. They both thought the same thing and neither spoke.

'Grensie, out with it! What's all this got to do with that dead fucker?'

'The name of that dad, your hero, was Fredrik Steffansson.'

Dickybird shot upright, his face twitching.

'Give over! Fuck's sake! Stop sitting here talking fucking crap like that!'

'Stig, I wish it was crap.' Ewert turned to Sven. 'Let's have a look at the papers.'

Sven rummaged in his briefcase until he had found copies of the two main evening papers, dated the day Fredrik Steffansson had been arrested for shooting at and killing Bernt Lund. Ewert lined them up for Dickybird to see.

'Here. If you don't trust me, just have a look.'

The headlines, the type as large and the ink as black on both front pages, screamed the same message.

He Shot His Daughter's Killer. Saved Two Girls' Lives.

The photographs too were the same in both papers. The ones Errfors had found in Lund's pockets. The pictures showed his intended victims. They sat side by side, in the playground of their Enköping nursery. Both were smiling. One of them had her blonde hair in neat plaits.

Dickybird stared. At the text. At the pictures. And then at the photo in the frame and the magnified one on the wall.

As if it were she. His little daughter, on the front pages of the papers.

He was still standing.

He screamed.