'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.'