Dark Angel (Anders Knutas 6)

talked of and what they had done when they arrived at the club. He sometimes liked to sneak a cigarette, she said, and the last she saw of him was when he went outside to have a smoke with a couple of his friends.
    He never came back.
    Half an hour later she saw her brother beaten beyond recognition and lying in a pool of blood on the ground.
    That was how Alexander ended his days, and her own life would never be the same again.
    Everyone in the auditorium was deeply touched by what she had said, and here and there people could be heard weeping.
    Afterwards, the principal spoke about the importance of not allowing Alexander’s life to have been taken in vain. About the necessity of regarding this as a wake-up call – for the young people, their parents and society as a whole.
    Both Johan and Pia were deeply moved by what they’d heard.
    ‘We need to talk to some of the parents,’ said Johan. ‘We haven’t heard anything from them in a while.’
    ‘Sure. How about that couple over there?’
    Pia nodded towards a middle-aged man and woman leaving the auditorium hand in hand.
    Johan cautiously tapped the man on the shoulder and then introduced himself.
    ‘Why are you and your wife here?’ was his first question.
    It was the man who answered.
    ‘Because our son was a witness to the assault, and we wanted to offer our support. To Alexander’s family, but also to the boys who were responsible and to their families. They are victims too.’
    ‘Why do you say that?’
    ‘Well, who’s the winner here? Nobody. Everyone loses. And what is the whole thing really about? A mere few seconds that have lifelong consequences for umpteen people. Anger sparked by an ill-tempered word, an obscene gesture, a nasty look. When I was young, these sorts of quarrels were resolved with a fist fight. In the worst-case scenario, it turned into a brawl that ended at the first sign of bloodshed or when your opponent fell to the ground. But what happens nowadays? The person on the ground gets kicked – in the head! Several boys gang up on an unconscious kid. Why aren’t there any boundaries any more? Is a human life of no value to these kids? Do they think they have the right to kill someone just because they feel insulted or humiliated? Why do our children have so much anger inside? Where does that come from? Those are the sort of questions we need to be asking.’
    Johan simply held out the microphone, without saying a word, as Pia filmed. They were standing outside the auditorium in the schoolyard and, one by one, people stopped to listen to the man’s tirade. A crowd started to form around them.
    The man went on: ‘And it’s not a simple matter of putting all the blame on violent computer games and the brutality shown on TV and in films. That does tend to desensitize viewers, but it’s not the core of the problem. No, it has to do with the whole structure of society. The grown-ups work too hard and are too stressed, so they don’t have time for their kids the way they used to in the past. And don’t misunderstand me – I’m not advocating that women should be forced back into the kitchen. But all parents, both men and women, need to spend more time with their children. Kids are too often left to their own devices; they have to manage too much on their own. And just look what happens.’
    He threw out his arms in a gesture of helplessness, and then fell silent as he shook his head. After that he walked straight through the crowd and across the asphalt of the schoolyard.
    Johan slowly lowered the microphone, watching the man and his wife, who was hurrying to catch up. Everyone else was shifting nervously from one foot to the other, and a few slunk away. Others remained where they were, as if they didn’t really know what to do.
    I have to ring Grenfors, thought Johan. We need to interview an expert in the studio about this topic. Maybe several.
    His thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping him on the shoulder. He glanced up to see a young, lanky teenage boy with curly red hair, peach fuzz on his upper lip and a spotty complexion.
    ‘Are you the reporter called Johan Berg?’ the boy asked.
    Johan nodded.
    ‘I think you know my dad. My name is Nils Knutas.’

I ALWAYS BICYCLED home from school. Even in winter, when the snow was piled high in drifts. On that particular day in March, most of it had melted away, and crocuses and snowdrops were peeking up along the side of the road. Our class had been allowed to go home