‘They’re waiting out there,’ Kerstin said, sighing.
‘Yeah, yeah. The next man to be held to account,’ said Paul, also sighing.
2
SKY.
How long had it been since he had seen it?
In Sweden, there are fifty-seven prisons with over four thousand places. They are divided into six security classes, of which class F prisons are open institutions and classes A to E are closed. Of these, class A prisons are the most secure, with the most dangerous inmates, and in Sweden there are two: Hall and Kumla.
Now he was looking directly at the sky, actually looking, not from behind bars. He glanced back to the gates which had closed behind him, and for a moment it felt as though he had left his body and become one with the sky; he saw the flat landscape below him, the whole of southern Närke county with its square green, brown and golden fields. The prison looked like nothing more than two square fields among all the others.
He couldn’t see the walls.
Dissolved by perspective.
Then he was down again.
Back to earth.
His feet on the ground.
He turned round once more. The walls were completely bare. Nothing behind them, nothing sticking up. Only walls. Grey. Grey walls.
He moved off. A smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
He walked towards the van that stood waiting. Ticking over. The sound of freedom. Freedom was a metallic-green van.
He stopped. Stood for a moment. Gentle, warm summer wind against his newly shaved cheeks. The sun. Morning heat. Asphalt quivering in the distance.
He glanced towards the van. Hands protruding from it. Waving. No sound yet. The sound didn’t reach him. The movements within. Like a foetus. An egg about to hatch. Preserved movements. Future events. Many quick steps coming together at one point.
Step one. Wallet out. Pitiful banknotes. Three forty an hour basic pay. Also a small device which looked like a miniature calculator.
He took it out. Weighed it in his hand. Held it up towards the van.
The waving stopped. The sound disappeared before it had reached him. Future movements were put on hold.
A single button, slightly raised. Red. Almost luminous.
He pressed it, smiled faintly and climbed into the van.
A fiery blaze rose up behind the walls.
High, high up towards the sky.
No longer only walls behind him.
As the van gathered speed, the sound still hadn’t reached him.
3
‘SO YOU’RE ON the committee for the Bajen Fans club?’
The man was in his thirties, and squinting as though the light in the darkened interrogation room was blinding. Behind his hangover, something else was going on. Watchfulness. The feeling that they would always be the accused.
‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Committee member.’
‘What is the Bajen Fans club, exactly?’ Kerstin Holm asked.
‘Not a violent organisation if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘No one’s suggesting that, not by any means. But a Hammarby supporter committed a terrible act of violence in a known Hammarby haunt, in the presence of at least one committee member from Bajen Fans. So it’s relevant for us to ask.’
He looked sullen. Remained silent. Glanced over to Hjelm, who was trying to look as though he was awake.
‘I know roughly what it is,’ said Hjelm. ‘An independent supporters’ group. Something that grew out of the Hammarby tribe in the early eighties.’
‘There you have it,’ said the man, with obvious pride. ‘We organise trips to the away games and our clubhouse on Grafikvägen is open on Thursdays and before every home game. We’re the ones making sure it doesn’t degenerate into violence. We stand for the only bloody bit of carnival colour in this monochrome country, and that’s why suspicion automatically falls on us.’
‘The club isn’t suspect. You are, Jonas Andersson from Enskede, you. You’re suspected of withholding the identity of the Kvarnen Killer.’
‘The Kvarnen Killer…’
‘The papers’ name for you-very-well-know-who.’
Jonas Andersson from Enskede met Hjelm’s eye without hesitation.
‘I was bloody well sitting there pressing a jumper to the guy’s mashed head. I knew right away it’d be us who’d get the blame.’
‘Did you see the perpetrator?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you?’
‘In a group by the wall, a little way from the door. It was crowded and there were loads of people and I didn’t see anything.’
‘You didn’t see anything?’
Hjelm hung up his boots. It was the fourth time that day he had uttered those words. Kerstin Holm saw him throw in the towel and picked up the baton. To mix a few metaphors.
‘Let’s make it easy,’ she said, pushing a sheet of paper in front of Jonas Andersson from Enskede. ‘Here’s a sketch of Kvarnen. When did you arrive, what did you see, and where?’
‘I was standing here, against the wall where the door is, with about ten people who were aiming to grab some seats over towards the corner. We got there at quarter past nine and we’d already had a fair bit to drink. So we were standing there, pressed up against the wall.’
‘OK. Had that group at the bar already arrived then?’
‘The bar was bloody busy. I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. It was packed, rowdy and noisy. A haze of disappointment. A 2-2 draw with Kalmar, at home. Last place confirmed. Everyone was pretty unhappy. Then suddenly it went quiet for a few seconds, the silence building like a little hole in the crowd. Then he was lying there. With a mashed head. I ran over and helped that Smålander hold the jumper to his head. It was all soft inside. Really fucking nasty. The only thing I saw was a whole load of people rushing for the door.’
‘A whole load of people?’
‘Yeah, twenty people escaped for sure before the bouncers turned up. They’d probably been off doing drugs.’
‘Twenty Hammarby fans?’
‘Others, too. Some managed to get out even though the bouncers were there. Talked their way out, probably, but I didn’t really see.’
‘So what you saw was a flood of people heading for the exit?’
‘I guess. Not what you’d expect. People normally react kind of like that group of dolled-up birds over in the corner did, screaming in panic and stuff like that. But quite a lot of people just rushed straight out.’
‘OK. Can you try to take us through where everyone was, using the sketch?’
Jonas Andersson caught his breath and groaned. He started pointing vaguely at the sketch, beginning with the row of tables by the window.
‘The group of girls at two tables over in the corner. Three of them panicked and got hysterical. The third table, nearest the door: a group of IT types. They were all still there afterwards. The next row: a group of Hammarby fans in the middle, next to some kid who was reading. Staring right down into his book. On one side of them, by the wall, a gang of Slavs. On the other side, nearest us, a group of bookish-looking students. Then on the row nearest the bar: the Hard Homo. Two couples taking up one table, and the Hard Homo squashed onto the same table. On the next table: some drunks. Closest to us, a bit of a mixture. Then the table next to the door, along the wall here, a tough-looking group, not exactly skinheads but almost. They cleared out, all apart from one.’
‘This is getting complicated now. The tough guys, how many of them were there?’
‘We were standing next to them, tried talking to them, but they didn’t say a word, just sat there, pushed us if we got too close – one of them was even listening to music. Not the one who stayed behind, though. Slaphead. With a moustache. Five, there were five of them. One stayed behind.’
‘Who else? The Hard Homo? The drunks?’