Watching You

by Arne Dahl

  ‘Yes,’ Bertil Brandt said. ‘She had it all thought through.’

  ‘But no one saw her actually jump?’

  ‘And no body was found. I think she just floated out to sea. She liked the sea.’

  ‘No witnesses?’

  ‘Not to the act itself, no. It was Midsummer’s Day, a bright night, but there was no one about. Anyone left in the city was probably recovering from Midsummer’s Eve. Even so, there are two separate accounts of her walking across the bridge with the bolt cutters in her hand, walking very purposefully. And there’s one surveillance camera.’

  ‘A surveillance camera?’

  ‘Down by Hornstull. That’s the direction she came from. The bolt cutters are clearly visible. And her face.’

  ‘How did she look?’

  ‘How did she look?’

  ‘Yes. You said you know all about that night.’

  Brandt laughed, an intensely desolate laugh, and shook his head. ‘You might be the least sensitive cop I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘Possibly the one with the least amount of time.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter to Emma. Or me.’

  ‘There’s a good chance it’s more urgent than you think …’

  ‘Tense. Tense to the point of bursting.’

  ‘Her face?’

  ‘Surveillance camera footage isn’t exactly high resolution. But she was pale, and looked very, very tense. My little …’

  Brandt tailed off. Blom waited. Felt a lump in her throat.

  One night, twenty-two years ago, she herself had been on her way up Västerbron. And back then there was no fence, just a metre-high railing. She had stopped on the way up the eastern side, looked out across the city and suddenly felt that some sort of meaning might be able to return to the life that William Larsson had taken from her. If not at that precise moment.

  ‘The anguish,’ Brandt said. ‘The anguish of being impotent.’

  ‘Impotent in the face of suicide?’

  ‘We’d been so close. Then she slipped away. It was horrible to watch. Emma’s mum was dead. It was just her and me.’

  ‘Why did she slip away?’

  ‘I never really made sense of it. I think there was a lot of crap at school, but she never said anything, just retreated into herself.’

  ‘It was that impotence you were referring to?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘Against the nightmare of bullying.’

  A few minutes later they were heading south. Berger was behind the wheel again.

  After driving all the way along Ringvägen he said: ‘It’s impossible to imagine. Having a daughter who kills herself with such determination.’

  ‘And is stopped,’ Blom said. ‘Stopped just as she’s about to jump.’

  ‘You think Emma Brandt was William’s sixth victim?’

  ‘Late on Midsummer’s Day this year,’ Blom said. ‘Right between Jonna Eriksson and Ellen Savinger. Yes, that’s what I think. Pretty much everyone who jumps from Västerbron ends up being found, sooner or later. Emma Brandt was the exception, her body just disappeared. It’s four months ago now.’

  ‘So you think we’ve got our seven victims now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Molly Blom said, gazing out across the water of Årstaviken as they crossed Skanstull Bridge. ‘Those are my strongest candidates.’

  ‘But the idea of William Larsson, a victim of bullying, taking revenge on Emma Brandt, a victim of bullying, seems odd.’

  ‘And how did he find her? How did he know she was planning to kill herself? I’m not saying I have the answer, I’m just looking for things that seem likely. William seems to have been well informed in the other cases. He snatched Aisha Pachachi the day she finished her last exam, and Ellen Savinger just after she’d left school. He planted a load of false evidence in Sunisa Phetwiset’s case and managed to take Julia Almström from her home in Västerås in the middle of the night. Each kidnapping seems to have been preceded by a hell of a lot of research.’

  ‘And there’s no real evidence,’ Berger said, turning off Nynäsvägen, going round the roundabout and setting off along Tyresövägen.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Blom finally asked.

  ‘Wait and see,’ Berger said.

  28

  Wednesday 28 October, 15.13

  Without really being aware of it, they turned off Tyresövägen and onto Gudöbroleden in Vendelsö. Lupinstigen was a short, diagonal link between Gudöbroleden and Vendelsö gårdsväg, which in turn led down towards the waters of Drevviken. Berger let the van roll down Lupinstigen and parked outside Vendelsögården, a home for people with dementia. Blom wrinkled her nose but said nothing. She followed him up to the top floor. He knocked on an unmarked door. Nothing happened.

  In the end a carer appeared out of nowhere and said: ‘Are you looking for Alicia?’

  Berger looked at her name badge. ‘Hello, Mia. Yes, we’re looking for Alicia Anger. Is she here?’

  ‘I’d be very surprised if she wasn’t,’ Mia Arvidsson said, unlocking the door. ‘She never goes anywhere else.’

  Berger put his hand on the door just before it opened. ‘A quick status report would be useful.’

  ‘Police?’ the carer said, smiling to herself. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘“Good luck.” So she’s pretty far gone?’

  ‘Let’s just say that you need a bit of patience to reach the moment of clarity,’ Mia Arvidsson said, opening the door wide. ‘But you need to be ready for it when it comes.’

  The old lady was sitting in a rocking chair, and she wasn’t particularly old, just distant. They waited until the carer had gone. Berger introduced himself and Blom with imaginative names. He sat down on an armchair in front of the woman, while Blom stayed standing by the wall, her arms folded sceptically across her chest.

  Afterwards Berger found himself fascinated by the creative potential of language once all barriers had been removed. He understood the words the old woman said, but their context remained obscure. The tragic thing was that she was no older than sixty-six, her name was Alicia Anger, she was William Larsson’s mother’s sister, and suffered badly from what Berger assumed was Alzheimer’s.

  He tried again: ‘Did you have any contact with your sister Stina when she was pregnant? Almost forty years ago now?’

  ‘The second breath always beat grey grains of truth for little Adelia. The nice sister, the one with a beard, says the archivists eat ants’ eggs. Every quarter. You too, Gundersen, not least you.’

  ‘Gundersen?’

  ‘You too. With your Valkyrie’s legs. The ones you fly with. You were courageous in battle, but not in life. Like Anger.’

  ‘Anger, your husband?’

  ‘He ran away. Away from me. I kept his name to make mischief. I think it killed him.’

  And suddenly the sentences held together. Was the moment of clarity on its way?

  ‘Do you remember when your sister Stina had a big tummy?’

  ‘We don’t have children in our family.’

  Berger fell silent for a moment and considered the nuances behind that sentence. Then he went on: ‘William was the exception, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Poor William,’ Alicia Anger said, as she stopped rocking and found solid ground in the late seventies. ‘He was the best argument for why the Larsson family shouldn’t have children. And you ran when you saw him …’

  ‘I ran?’

  ‘You know you did. You ran before you even saw him.’

  ‘Didn’t I ever see my son?’ Berger gambled.

  ‘If you had, you would have died. His face …’

  ‘When did you last see me?’

  ‘Now you’re being cheeky. I’ve never met you.’

  ‘But Stina talked about me?’

  ‘Maybe not talked. Vomited. Spewed.’

  ‘What did she spew? That I was courageous in battle, but not in life?’

  ‘I realised that for myself, thank you very much. You scum.’

  Scum, Berger thought, feeling his
heart pounding.

  ‘What does “battle” mean, Alicia?’

  ‘You were a warrior, and I’ve heard that warriors often suppress the fact that they are warriors.’

  ‘Where was I a warrior?’

  ‘For money, you scum.’

  ‘Where? Do you know where, Alicia?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some ruddy Arab country.’

  ‘In the mid-seventies. Lebanon?’

  ‘Shut up, you bastard.’

  ‘And what’s the rest of my name, apart from Gundersen?’

  ‘Don’t you know? Nils. The way she used to bang on about that bloody name as soon as she got a drink inside her. The few times she was sober she tried to forget it.’

  ‘I was blonder in those days, wasn’t I, Alicia?’

  ‘White blond. And you just walked out. How the hell could you just walk out?’

  ‘I went on fighting. Did I come back?’

  ‘The first Valkyrie sings the sweetest. Skögul, the one who filled Odin’s horn with mead. Hrist, Mist, Hildr, Göndul. God, they could fight, those women. So, Señor Cortado, have you ever heard about the red girl?’

  ‘No,’ Berger said, almost speechless.

  ‘Ulster, Ireland. Ingen ruaidh. Led a gang of Vikings in the tenth century. Much feared. Don’t say anything to the bearded lady, but I’m the red girl. Call me Ingen.’

  ‘Do you know if William ever met his father?’

  ‘From time to time the cockerels crowed, Nils. Your blood curdled.’

  When Berger shut the door on the red girl, alias Alicia Anger, the rocking chair was moving again. He met Blom’s gaze. They stood there for a moment, reaching for words. It was as if language was barely possible any more.

  In the end Berger managed to say: ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Very hard to say,’ Blom said. ‘It could be nothing but senile nonsense. But it’s probably worth checking if there’s a blond mercenary by the name of Nils Gundersen. How did you find her?’

  ‘She was on the edge of William’s family tree on your whiteboard. You were the one who found her.’

  Blom pulled a grim face and set off down the stairs. Berger lingered and watched her go. That oddly energetic stride. He saw her reach the window at the turn in the stairs. He saw her stop abruptly and draw back from the window. He saw her look up at him and beckon him closer.

  It was a big window, facing the road. He stood close beside her as she pointed up Lupinstigen. He had noted of all the parked cars when they entered Vendelsögården Care Home. Something had changed. There was a new car parked across the street, a graphite-coloured Volvo. It was raining again, pouring, and no matter how Berger tried he couldn’t see if there were one or two people sitting in the front. He looked at their Mercedes Vito, which was parked right in front of the home, just a dozen metres from the Volvo. They’d never be able to reach it without being seen.

  They held back, waiting for more obvious signs. After a minute or so the driver’s window opened and a piece of chewing gum was thrown out. Berger wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, but he’d thought he’d seen a big, cheap diver’s watch on the wrist before it quickly disappeared.

  He let out a deep sigh and turned round. She had already walked away. They found a kitchen door at the back of the building, crossed the gardens of a number of identical apartment blocks, emerged onto Vendelsö gårdsväg, ran west through the pouring rain, away from Lupinstigen and reached a car park, checked for security cameras and failed to find any. Berger identified a suitably antiquated car, put his old tricks to good use and jimmied the lock. They got in and waited. None of the neighbours appeared; there was no reaction. He leaned over and pulled the cables free, then touched them together. The old car rumbled into life.

  ‘I was very fond of my Vito,’ Blom sighed.

  Berger moved off towards Vendelsö gårdsväg, then paused briefly before heading left, towards the lake. They both looked right and saw a rain-drenched figure.

  There was no doubt that it was Roy’s colleague, Kent. He had evidently been hidden from view.

  They saw him turn round and gesticulate frantically towards Lupinstigen. Berger let slip another deep sigh and put his foot down.

  ‘And we had to take this piece of shit,’ Blom said.

  ‘If you’d been able to break into a newer model, we could have taken that,’ Berger said pointedly.

  He turned left into Vendelsö allé and roared out onto the main road by pretty much ignoring a roundabout. Blom kept her eye on the rear-view mirror.

  ‘They’re gaining on us,’ she said.

  Piece of shit it might be, but it had a bit of go in it, Berger concluded with his foot on the floor. Even so, it was obvious that Roy and Kent were getting closer and closer in their souped-up graphite-grey Security Service car. Berger tried to focus. They were on a typical main road in the outer suburbs. What was Roy thinking? Was he seriously going to ram them on a busy major road? Shoot at them, even? They were probably safer on main roads and open spaces, sticking to an inconspicuous speed. But then they wouldn’t have any chance of shaking Roy and Kent, and the Volvo was bound to have a tank twice the size of theirs. And backup was undoubtedly on the way. Something needed to happen. Fast.

  Berger cast a brief glance at Blom. She looked like her thoughts were running in the same direction. Gudöbroleden would soon dive beneath the motorway. They could get up onto the larger Nynäsvägen and hope for enough traffic to allow them to make their escape.

  ‘Up here or not?’ Berger roared.

  ‘Not,’ Blom said, and pointed to the left. Some way off a number of high-rise apartment blocks loomed above what was probably Haninge shopping centre. He heard the distant sound of a train heading south, and he ran a red light by the junction with Gamla Nynäsvägen. A state of mild chaos broke out in the traffic behind them, putting another hundred metres between them and the Volvo. Vital metres. Then he jerked the wheel abruptly and raced into the jungle of Haninge’s apartment blocks. He found what looked like a full car park and drove into the last free space.

  Blom nodded and threw herself out. They ran from the car, keeping low. From a distance it looked comfortably anonymous. They ran into the housing estate and saw the graphite-grey Volvo drive past out on Gamla Nynäsvägen. They saw it brake sharply, as Roy looked for somewhere to turn round, but the carriageways were separated by a stretch of grass that was too high to drive across without wrecking the car.

  Blom suddenly grabbed his hand and took off. They crossed Gamla Nynäsvägen between angry, horn-blaring cars, and then Berger realised why Blom had run. He too could hear a train in the distance, and it sounded different, as if it was slowing down. They ran along a quieter street and saw, a few hundred metres away, a covered footbridge. That ought to signify a railway station. Through the rain they could soon see the storm-lashed water of a lake, and, this side of it, an embankment, a platform, a railway line, a fence that didn’t look too high, even if the barbed wire looked vicious. The sound of the train grew louder and louder as a local commuter service pulled slowly in along the far set of tracks.

  Blom set off towards the fence. She grabbed the wire between barbs and turned a full somersault to reach the embankment. It was rush hour and the platform was full of commuters. People stared at her, someone took a picture with a mobile phone. Berger in turn glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw a grey Volvo speeding along the station road. Instinctively he rushed at the fence and grabbed it, ignoring the fact that a barb pierced his left palm. The southbound local train pulled up at the platform and the doors slid slowly open.

  ‘Come on!’ Blom yelled from the embankment.

  The sound of the Volvo’s engine was very clear now, a subdued growl. People streamed out of the open doors of the train, others started to get on. The driver’s voice rang out. Berger couldn’t get a firm grip with his feet; they kept slipping in the gaps in the fence. Blom grabbed his jacket and pulled him over, and he tumbled into a puddle. The Volvo caught up with them,
stopping just a few metres behind Berger’s back, but he was over now. He got to his feet and rushed wildly after Blom, who had just leapt onto the platform from the rails closest to them. The train’s doors began to close, and she jumped in and reached one hand out through the diminishing gap. He just managed to catch her hand and let himself be pulled in before the doors closed and the train set off. The last they saw of Handen station was Roy punching the fence. His whole arm recoiled.

  The carriage was fairly full. People were looking at them with distaste. There were a couple of raised mobiles. It hadn’t exactly been a subtle escape. Something needed to be done.

  Blom got there first. She held up her ID. ‘Sorry about that. Police. There’s nothing to see.’

  The seasoned commuters went back to whatever they had been doing with suspicious expressions. Berger breathed out and looked at his bleeding hand.

  ‘How the hell did they find us?’ he whispered.

  ‘Later,’ Blom said. ‘Right now the question is whether or not they’re going to get to the next station in time.’

  ‘Jordbro,’ Berger groaned.

  ‘There’s quite a lot of traffic,’ Blom said, ‘but all they have to do is keep driving down Gamla Nynäsvägen. We’re not safe yet.’

  Berger felt his bleeding palm. ‘Oh well. I injured my hand in Handen. Which is something.’

  The train picked up speed; it seemed unlikely that the Volvo could drive any faster. Three minutes later they were at Jordbro station. They couldn’t see the Volvo through the train windows. They got out, rushed through the barriers and evaluated the situation. It was a noticeably less urban station, but on the other side of the tracks was a familiar logo. Possibly the most familiar logo in the world. Coca-Cola’s headquarters in Sweden, a vast industrial building with a hell of a lot of cars parked outside. They set off in that direction, through the wretched, never-ending rain.

  ‘Shift workers,’ Blom said. ‘No one will miss anything until first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Do you fancy something a little more modern?’ Berger said.

  She flashed him a dark look, and soon they were sitting in another similar vehicle from the nineties in the traffic heading back towards Stockholm.