hands quickly, Sven was introduced and the three of them started walking
together towards the main entrance. Bergh was in the guard's post and nodded at
Ewert, a familiar face. Sven was different.
'Where
do you think you're going?'
Lennart
turned back.
'Come
on, Bergh. He's with me. City Police,' he said irritably.
'I've
no notification.'
'They're
investigating Lund's escape.'
'None
of my business. Unlike who gets in here, which is. So why no notification,
then?'
Sven
intervened, just in time to stop Oscarsson from shouting something he'd regret
later.
'Look,
here's my ID. OK?'
Bergh
studied the mug shot and entered Sven's ID number in the database.
'Hey,
it's your birthday today. What are you doing here, mate?'
'Never
mind. Are you letting me in?'
Bergh
waved him through and they filed into the corridor. Ewert laughed.
'What
a tosser! Why do you keep such an idiot around? He makes it harder to get in
than out of this place.'
His
mood changed as they walked along the regulation passageways with their
regulation murals. Some showed a bit more talent than others; all were would-be
therapeutic projects led by hired consultants. He sighed. Always blue
background, always the obvious symbolism of open gates and birds flying free
and more liberation shit of that sort. Organised graffiti for grown-ups, signed Benke Lelle Hinken Zoran Jari The Goat 1987.
Lennart
opened a metal door. Inside, a noisy gang of inmates were being escorted to the
gym by two officers in front and two behind. Ewert sighed again. He knew quite
a few of the villains, had interrogated them or testified against them. There
were even a couple of ancient lags that he had run in during his days on the
beat.
'Hi
there, Grensie. On the chase, are you?'
It
was Stig Lindgren, one of the inhabitants of the World of Outcasts. He was a
permanent fixture behind the walls and would never survive anywhere else. Lock
him up and throw the key away, the old fucker had no other options. Ewert had
grown fed up with his type.
'Shut
your gob, Lindgren, or I'll tell your useless mates why you're called
Dickybird.'
Then
upstairs to A Unit, sex offenders only.
Lennart
walked ahead, Ewert and Sven followed, looking about. Regulation stuff again:
television corner, snooker table, kitchen, cells. But the crimes were different
in that they aroused as much hatred in the World of Outcasts as among ordinary
citizens.
They
reached cell number eleven. Alone among the others in the corridor this door
was bare. The temporary occupants of the rooms behind all the other doors had
decorated them laboriously with posters and newspaper cuttings and photos.
Ewert
had time to think that he should have been here six months ago. He should have
stepped inside the door to Lund's cell. At the time he had been investigating a
child pornography ring, which had given him his first real insight into the
closed society of new-style paedophiles, structured round internet connections
and databases and secret mail addresses. He had seen their images of naked or
partly undressed children, penetrated and humiliated children, tortured
children, lonely children. Initially, he and his colleagues had thought that
this pornography exchange was part of a foreign network of dark vice and profit
and inscrutable agreements, but it turned out differently, more discreet,
smarter and more challenging.
Just
seven men, a select society of serious, recidivist sex offenders. One locked
up, most of them just released from prison.
They
had created their own virtual display cabinet. Their contributions to the show
were downloaded on the net and run on their computers at set times, as if
following a performance schedule. Once a week, same time, Saturday, at eight
o'clock. They sat in front of their screens, waiting for that
together towards the main entrance. Bergh was in the guard's post and nodded at
Ewert, a familiar face. Sven was different.
'Where
do you think you're going?'
Lennart
turned back.
'Come
on, Bergh. He's with me. City Police,' he said irritably.
'I've
no notification.'
'They're
investigating Lund's escape.'
'None
of my business. Unlike who gets in here, which is. So why no notification,
then?'
Sven
intervened, just in time to stop Oscarsson from shouting something he'd regret
later.
'Look,
here's my ID. OK?'
Bergh
studied the mug shot and entered Sven's ID number in the database.
'Hey,
it's your birthday today. What are you doing here, mate?'
'Never
mind. Are you letting me in?'
Bergh
waved him through and they filed into the corridor. Ewert laughed.
'What
a tosser! Why do you keep such an idiot around? He makes it harder to get in
than out of this place.'
His
mood changed as they walked along the regulation passageways with their
regulation murals. Some showed a bit more talent than others; all were would-be
therapeutic projects led by hired consultants. He sighed. Always blue
background, always the obvious symbolism of open gates and birds flying free
and more liberation shit of that sort. Organised graffiti for grown-ups, signed Benke Lelle Hinken Zoran Jari The Goat 1987.
Lennart
opened a metal door. Inside, a noisy gang of inmates were being escorted to the
gym by two officers in front and two behind. Ewert sighed again. He knew quite
a few of the villains, had interrogated them or testified against them. There
were even a couple of ancient lags that he had run in during his days on the
beat.
'Hi
there, Grensie. On the chase, are you?'
It
was Stig Lindgren, one of the inhabitants of the World of Outcasts. He was a
permanent fixture behind the walls and would never survive anywhere else. Lock
him up and throw the key away, the old fucker had no other options. Ewert had
grown fed up with his type.
'Shut
your gob, Lindgren, or I'll tell your useless mates why you're called
Dickybird.'
Then
upstairs to A Unit, sex offenders only.
Lennart
walked ahead, Ewert and Sven followed, looking about. Regulation stuff again:
television corner, snooker table, kitchen, cells. But the crimes were different
in that they aroused as much hatred in the World of Outcasts as among ordinary
citizens.
They
reached cell number eleven. Alone among the others in the corridor this door
was bare. The temporary occupants of the rooms behind all the other doors had
decorated them laboriously with posters and newspaper cuttings and photos.
Ewert
had time to think that he should have been here six months ago. He should have
stepped inside the door to Lund's cell. At the time he had been investigating a
child pornography ring, which had given him his first real insight into the
closed society of new-style paedophiles, structured round internet connections
and databases and secret mail addresses. He had seen their images of naked or
partly undressed children, penetrated and humiliated children, tortured
children, lonely children. Initially, he and his colleagues had thought that
this pornography exchange was part of a foreign network of dark vice and profit
and inscrutable agreements, but it turned out differently, more discreet,
smarter and more challenging.
Just
seven men, a select society of serious, recidivist sex offenders. One locked
up, most of them just released from prison.
They
had created their own virtual display cabinet. Their contributions to the show
were downloaded on the net and run on their computers at set times, as if
following a performance schedule. Once a week, same time, Saturday, at eight
o'clock. They sat in front of their screens, waiting for that
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