by Lars Kepler
‘We’re talking about national security here.’
‘I’m no longer a police officer.’
‘The Security Police will have your conviction quashed and you’ll get conditional parole if you do this.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘That’s how she said you’d react,’ the Prime Minister says.
‘Saga Bauer?’
‘She said you wouldn’t listen to any offer from the Security Police … That’s why I decided to come in person.’
‘I’d be more inclined to consider the job if I didn’t think you were withholding vital information from me.’
‘What is there to conceal? The Security Police think you can help them identify Salim Ratjen’s contact on the outside.’
‘I’m sorry you wasted your time,’ Joona says, then gets to his feet and starts walking towards the door.
‘I can get you pardoned,’ the Prime Minister says to his back.
‘That would require government approval,’ Joona says, turning around.
‘I’m the Prime Minister.’
‘As long as I feel I’m not being given all available information, I’m going to have to say no,’ Joona repeats.
‘How can you claim to be unaware of what you don’t know?’ the Prime Minister asks, obviously irritated.
‘I know you’re sitting here even though you should be in Brussels for a meeting of the European Council,’ Joona says. ‘I know that you gave up smoking eight years ago, but now you’ve suffered a relapse, judging by the smell on your clothes and the mud on your shoes.’
‘Mud on my shoes?’
‘You’re a considerate man, and because your driver doesn’t smoke you got out of the car to have a cigarette.’
‘But …’
‘I’ve noticed you checked your phone eleven times, but you haven’t answered any messages, so I know there’s something missing, because there was nothing in that report I read that indicates there’s any real urgency.’
For the first time, the Prime Minister looks lost for words. He rubs his chin and seems to be thinking hard.
‘We believe we’re dealing with a number of planned murders,’ he says eventually.
‘A number?’ Joona repeats.
‘The Security Police removed that from the report, but there seem to be three murders planned, at least to start, and the next one is believed to be planned for Wednesday. That’s why it’s urgent.’
‘Who are the likely targets for these attacks?’
‘We don’t know for sure, but the information we do have suggests precise and well-planned executions.’
‘Politicians?’
‘Probably.’
‘And you think one of them might be you?’ Joona asks.
‘It could be anyone,’ the Prime Minister replies quickly. ‘But I’ve been led to believe that you’re our best option, and I’m hoping you’ll accept the job. And if you do actually manage to discover information that helps stop these terrorists, I’ll see to it that you get your old life back.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Joona replies.
‘Listen, you have to do this,’ the Prime Minister says. Joona can tell that he’s really scared.
‘If you can get the Security Police to cooperate fully with me, then I promise to identify the people responsible.’
‘And you understand that it has to happen before Wednesday …? That’s when they kill their next target,’ the Prime Minister says.
17
The Rabbit Hunter is walking restlessly around the large shipping container in the crooked glare of the fluorescent ceiling light.
He stops in front of a few open crates and a large petrol can. He presses his fingers to his left temple and tries to calm his breathing.
He looks at his phone.
No messages.
As he walks back to his equipment he steps on a laminated map of Djursholm lying on the floor.
He’s put his pistols, knives and rifles in a pile on a battered desk. Some of the weapons are dirty and worn, while others are still in their original packaging.
There’s a pile of rusty tools and old mason jars full of springs and firing pins, extra cartridges, rolls of black bin bags, duct-tape, bags of zip ties, axes and a broad-bladed Emerson knife, its tip honed as sharp as an arrowhead.
He’s stacked boxes containing different types of ammunition against the wall. On top of three of them are photographs of three people.
A lot of the boxes are still closed, but the lid has been torn off one box of 5.56x45mm ammunition, and there are bloody fingerprints on another.
The Rabbit Hunter puts a box of 9mm pistol bullets in a crumpled plastic bag. He examines a short-handled axe and adds it to the bag, then drops the whole thing on the floor with a loud clang.
He reaches out his hand and picks up one of the small photographs. He moves it to the edge of one of the container’s metal ribs, but it falls off.
He puts it back carefully and looks at the face with a smile: the cheery set of the mouth, the unruly hair. He leans forward and looks into the man’s eyes, and decides that he’s going to cut his legs off and watch him crawl like a snail through his own blood.
And he’ll watch the man’s son’s desperate attempts to tie tourniquets around his father’s legs in an effort to save his life, and maybe he’ll let him stem the flow of blood before going over and slicing his stomach open.
The photograph falls again and sails down amongst the weapons.
He lets out a roar and overturns the entire desk, sending pistols, knives and ammunition clattering across the floor.
The glass jars shatter in a cascade of splinters and spare parts.
The Rabbit Hunter leans against the wall, gasping for breath. He remembers the old industrial area that used to be between the highway and the sewage plant. The printing works and warehouses had burned down, and beneath the foundations of an old cottage was a vast rabbit warren.
The first time he checked the trap, there were ten small rabbits in the snares, all exhausted but still alive when he skinned them.
He regains control of himself. He’s calm and focused again. He knows he can’t give in to his rage, can’t show its hideous face, not even when he’s alone.
It’s time to go.
He licks his lips, then picks a knife up off the floor, along with two pistols, a Springfield Operator and a grimy Glock 19. He adds another carton of ammunition and four extra magazines to the plastic bag.
The Rabbit Hunter goes out into the cool night air. He closes the door of the container, pulls the bar across it and fastens the padlock, then walks to the car through the tall weeds. When he opens the boot a cloud of flies emerges. He tosses the bag of weapons in beside the bin-bag of rotting flesh, closes the boot and turns towards the forest.
He looks at the tall trees, conjures up the face in the photograph, and tries to force the rhyme out of his head.
18
In the Salvation Army’s offices at 69 Östermalms Street, a private lunch meeting is underway. Twelve people have made one long table out of three smaller ones, and are now sitting so close that they can see the tiredness and sadness in each other’s faces. The daylight shines in on the pale wooden furniture and the tapestry of the apostles fishing.
At one end sits Rex Müller, in his tailored jacket and black leather trousers. He’s fifty-two years old, still good-looking despite his frown and the swollen bags under his eyes.
Everyone looks at him as he puts his coffee cup back down on the saucer and runs a hand through his hair.
‘My name is Rex, and I usually don’t say anything, I just sit and listen,’ he begins, then gives an awkward little smile. ‘I don’t really know what you want me to say.’
‘Tell us why you’re here,’ says a woman with sad wrinkles around her mouth.
‘I’m a pretty good chef,’ he goes on, and clears his throat. ‘And in my line of work you need to know about wine, beer, fortified wine, spirits, liqueurs and so
on … I’m not an alcoholic. I maybe drink a little too much. I do stupid things sometimes, even though you shouldn’t believe everything the papers say.’
He pauses and peers at them with a smile, but they just wait for him to go on.
‘I’m here because my employer insisted, otherwise I’ll lose my job … and I like my job.’
Rex had been hoping for laughter, but they’re all looking at him in silence.
‘I have a son. He’s practically grown up now, in his last year at high school … And one of the things I probably ought to regret about my life is not being a good dad. I haven’t been a dad at all. I’ve been there for birthdays and so on, but … I didn’t really want children, I wasn’t mature enough to …’
His voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, and to his surprise he feels tears welling up in his eyes.
‘OK, I’m an idiot, you might have realised that already,’ he says quietly, then takes a deep breath. ‘It’s like this … My ex, she’s wonderful, there aren’t many people who can say that about their ex, but Veronica is great … And now she’s been hand-picked to launch a big project about free healthcare in Sierra Leone, but she’s thinking of turning it down.’
Rex smiles wryly at the others.
‘She’s perfect for the job … so I told her I was trying to stay sober these days, and that Sammy can live with me when she’s away. Since I’ve been coming to these meetings she believes I’ve started to show more responsibility … and now she’s actually going on her first trip to Freetown.’
He runs his fingers through his messy black hair and leans forward.
‘Sammy’s had a pretty tough time. It’s probably my fault, I don’t know, his life is very different to mine … I’m not for a minute thinking I can repair our relationship, but I am actually looking forward to getting to know him a little better.’
‘Thanks for sharing,’ one of the women says quietly.
Rex Müller has spent the past two years as the resident chef on a popular morning programme on TV4. He’s won silver in the Bocuse d’Or contest, has worked with Magnus Nilsson at Fäviken Magasinet, has published three cookbooks, and last autumn he signed a lucrative contract with the Grupp F12 restaurant company, making him head chef at Smak.
After three hours in the new restaurant he hands things over to Eliza, the sous chef, changes into a blue shirt and suit, and heads over to the inauguration of a new hotel at Hötorget. He gets photographed with Avicii, then takes a taxi out to Dalarö to meet his associates.
David Jordan Andersen – or DJ, as everyone calls him – is thirty-three years old, and set up the production and branded content company that bought the rights to Rex’s cooking. In three years he has taken Rex from one of the country’s foremost chefs to genuine celebrity status.
Now Rex sweeps into the restaurant of the Dalarö Strand Hotel, shakes DJ’s hand and sits down across from him.
‘I thought Lyra was thinking of coming?’ Rex says.
‘She’s meeting her art school friends.’
DJ resembles a modern-day Viking with his full blond beard and blue eyes.
‘Did Lyra think I was difficult last time?’ Rex asks with a frown.
‘You were difficult last time,’ DJ replies frankly. ‘You don’t have to give the cook a lecture every time you go to a restaurant.’
‘It was supposed to be a joke.’
The waiter arrives with their appetisers. He lingers a little too long, then blushes as he asks if Rex would mind giving the gang in the kitchen his autograph.
‘That depends on the food,’ Rex replies seriously. ‘I can’t stand it when a lemon emulsion tastes like sweets.’
The waiter stands beside the table, smiling awkwardly, as Rex picks up his knife and fork and cuts a piece of chargrilled asparagus.
‘Take it easy,’ DJ cajoles, rubbing his blond beard.
Rex dips a piece of smoked salmon in the lemon sauce, smells it, then tastes it, chewing with a look of intense concentration. He finally takes out a pen and writes on the back of the menu: My congratulations to the master chefs at Dalarö Strand Hotel. Warm regards, Rex.
The waiter thanks him and hurries back to the kitchen with a look of unfeigned delight on his face.
‘Is it really that good?’ DJ asks quietly.
‘It’s OK,’ Rex replies.
DJ leans across the table, fills Rex’s glass with water, then nudges the bread-basket towards him. Rex takes a sip and looks out at a large yacht heading out to sea from the harbour.
Their plates of fried herring, charred red onion and mashed potatoes arrive.
‘Have you checked to see if you can make it next weekend?’ DJ asks tentatively.
‘Is that when we’re meeting the investors?’ Rex asks.
Rex and his team have spent over a year developing the first items in a set of kitchen equipment with Rex’s name on them.
They’re very good quality, sleek design at a reasonable price, and intended to be for ‘kitchen royalty’. Rex of Kitchen.
‘I thought we could spend some time with them, have a decent meal. It’s really important that they feel special,’ he explains.
Rex nods and cuts a piece of herring, then reaches across the table for DJ’s glass of chilled beer.
‘Rex?’
‘No one needs to know,’ he says with a wink.
‘Don’t do it,’ DJ says calmly.
‘Are you going to start too?’ Rex says, smiling, and puts the glass down. ‘I’m sober, but it’s pretty ridiculous. Everyone’s just decided that I have a problem without asking me.’
They finish their meal, pay, and walk down to the hotel jetty, where DJ’s motorboat, a Sea Ray Sundancer that’s seen better days, is moored.
It’s a warm evening, almost impossibly beautiful. The water is still, the sun is setting slowly, and the clouds are lit with golden light.
They cast off and slowly pull away from the jetty, rocking through the wake of another boat. They head carefully into the main waterway. The hillside on the port side is strewn with ornate wooden houses.
‘How’s your mum these days?’ Rex asks, sitting down beside DJ on the white leather seat.
‘A little better, actually,’ he replies, accelerating slightly. ‘The doctors have switched her medication and she’s not feeling too bad now.’
His voice is drowned out by the roar of the engine when they reach open water. White foam whips up behind them, the bow lifts up and the hull strikes the waves. They keep accelerating, and the boat starts to plane and shoots off across the water.
Rex stands up unsteadily and starts to pull on the water-skis that are tucked behind the seats.
‘Aren’t you going to take your suit off?’ DJ shouts.
‘What?’
‘It’ll get soaked.’
‘I’m not going to fall in!’ Rex shouts back.
He starts unrolling the line, then feels his phone buzz in his inside pocket. It’s Sammy, and Rex gestures at DJ to slow down.
‘Hello?’
He can hear music and voices in the background.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Sammy says, with his phone very close to his mouth. ‘I just thought I’d check what you’re doing tonight.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At a party, but …’
The swell from a large yacht makes Rex sway. He loses his balance and sits down on the white leather cushion.
‘Are you having a good time?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘I’m out at Dalarö with DJ, but there’s some of last night’s sole in the fridge … You can have it cold, or heat it up in the oven for a few minutes.’
‘I can’t hear you,’ Sammy says.
‘I won’t be late,’ Rex tries to shout.
He can hear loud music over the phone, the thud of a heavy bassline, and a woman shouting something.
‘See you later,’ Rex says, but the line has already gone dead.
19
It’s late at night
when the taxi rolls down Rehns Street and stops in front of an ornate wooden door. Rex has borrowed some dry clothes from DJ, and has his wet suit in a black bin-bag. He’s supposed to appear on television early the next morning, and should really have been asleep hours ago.
Rex makes his way inside, shivering as he presses the button for the lift. It doesn’t move. He steps forward and peers up into the lift shaft. The cabin is standing motionless on the fifth floor. There’s a creaking, scraping sound. The cables are swaying and he wonders idly if someone is moving out in the middle of the night.
He waits a little longer, then starts to walk up the stairs, the bag of wet clothes over his shoulder like he’s Santa Claus.
When he gets halfway up he hears the lift creak as it starts to move. It passes him on the third floor, and through the grille he can see that it’s empty.
Rex reaches the top floor, sets the bag down and catches his breath. As he puts the key in the lock he hears the lift come back up and stop at his floor.
‘Sammy?’
The doors slide open, but the lift is empty. Someone must have pressed the button for the sixth floor, then got out.
Rex walks through the flat without turning the lights on, wondering if it’s worth checking to see if Sammy has left any of the sole before he goes to bed. The floor glints silver in the gloom, and through the glass door to the deck he can see the city’s carpet of lights spread out below.
Rex opens the fridge and has time to register that Sammy hasn’t touched the fish when his phone rings.
‘Rex here,’ he answers hoarsely.
The receiver crackles. He can hear heavy music in the background, and someone whimpering.
‘Dad?’ a voice whispers.
‘Sammy? I thought you’d be home by now.’
‘I’m not feeling too good,’ his son slurs.
‘What happened?’
‘I lost my stuff, and Nico’s pissed off at me … I don’t know. For fuck’s sake, just stop it, will you?’ he says to someone at the other end.