The Beast by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström Page B

get?'
        'I
don't know. Something. Why? Why does he lick children's feet, for instance?'
        'Why
do you think it matters to know why?'
        'It
matters who this guy is, inside. Where he's going, what it's for. But the
bottom line is, I want to find the motherfucker so I can go home and eat some
cake and drink a glass. Or three.'
        'You'll
never know what he's like inside. Not a hope, I'm sorry. There's nothing like a
reason in any of all this. He doesn't know himself why he licks the feet of his
victims, dead or alive. I'm convinced he doesn't have a clue why he lines
things up two centimetres apart either.'
        Ewert
was holding up his diary at face level. He put his thumb as a marker at the
two-centimetre mark, forcing them all to look.
        'Control.
That's all. They're like that, all of them. They enjoy rape, because when they
do it they call the shots. Power and control. Though this one is extreme, he's
actually just like the rest. His rows of stones and so forth are all about
order, structure, being in charge.'
        He
lowered the diary, placed it at the end of the row of stones and swept the lot
down on to the floor.
        'But
we know that. And we know he's a sadist. We know what power does to men like
Lund. His cock goes hard, that's how it works. He controls someone, that person
is powerless. Only he decides how to hurt them and how much. It's what gives
him his kicks, makes him come in front of tied-up, broken nine-year-olds.'
        He
did his trick with the diary to the biros on the windowsill. One by one they
hit the floor.
        'Come
to think of it, the pictures. The computer ones. Did he sort them too?'
        Lennart
fixed his gaze on the piled-up biros on the floor. No sign of order now. Then
he met Ewert's eyes, looking surprised, as if the question was new to him.
        'Sorted?
How do you mean?'
        'Well,
how did he do it? I can't fucking remember. Faces, eyes, yes. How bloody
abandoned they all looked. But not distances, how the images were related to
each other.'
        'I
don't know. I should, maybe, but I don't. Didn't even think about it. But I
will find out, if you think it's important.'
        'Yes
it is. It's important.' Lennart sat down on the bed. 'Tomorrow, will that do?'
'Not really.'
        'OK,
later. When we're done here. The file is in my room.'
      
            
        They
turned the cell inside out. They inspected every corner of what had been Bernt
Lund's home for four years, touched everything, sniffed around.
        There
was no information to be had. He had not had a plan.
        He
had not known that he was going somewhere.

----
        

        
        Fredrik
opened the car door. He had driven far too fast, stayed in seventy on the
Tosterö Bridge with its thirty- kilometre limit, but he had promised Marie they
would be in school by one thirty so there was nothing else for it.
        And
it was good that she went to school, because Daddy was working today. Actually,
it was a lie. It had been a lie yesterday. She went to nursery school because
it was important for her to keep the place, and because having a daddy who
worked was part of the scene. Even better, a daddy who worked hard at writing
and needed to be alone when he was thinking complicated thoughts. He hadn't had
even a single thought worth thinking for months, and he hadn't written a word
for weeks. He was in the grip of writer's block and had no idea how to wrench
free.
        That
was why Frans haunted him at night. That was why he could not make love to the
beautiful, naked young woman lying close to him, instead constantly comparing
her with someone who filled his thoughts but who didn't want him, with Agnes.
For a long time working, writing, had kept memory and reflection at bay. And
perhaps that was what he had always done, avoided emotion through work work
work, his mind turning over like an engine racing. Only by moving forward