by Lars Kepler
Dear Joona,
You’re probably wondering why I’m writing to you after all these years. The answer’s simple. I just haven’t dared to get in touch before. I’ve only plucked up the courage now because you’re in prison.
We both know that we chose very different paths in life. Maybe it wasn’t all that much of a surprise that you joined the police, but I never had any idea that I’d end up going in the opposite direction – you know that. I didn’t think I had it in me, but things happen, you pick a path that winds off in front of you, and leads you to a place you never wanted to be.
I’m a different person today, I live a normal life. I’m divorced, with two grown-up sons, and I’ve been working as a gardener for many years now. But I will never forget what it’s like to serve time.
Maybe you’re married. Maybe you have lots of kids who come and visit you all the time, but if you’re feeling lonely I’d like to come and see you.
I know we were very young when we met, and we really only had that last year in high school, but I’ve never stopped thinking about you.
Very best wishes,
Valeria
Joona folds the letter and puts it with the others. He picks the bedsheets up from the floor and shakes them. He doesn’t dare think about the fact that the Prime Minister’s mission could lead to a pardon.
Being locked up and the feeling of impotence that goes with it would quickly become overwhelming if he started to fantasise about freedom. He’d start dreaming of going to Paris to see Lumi, of seeing Valeria, of visiting Disa’s grave in Hammarby Cemetery, of going up north to where Summa is buried.
He stifles his longing as he makes the bed, stretching the sheets over the mattress, plumping the pillow and putting it back in place.
29
After studying for three hours, Joona and Marko are let out of the library and start to walk back through the tunnel for lunch.
The security system at Kumla is based on limiting both the range of the inmates’ movement and the opportunities for contact between individuals.
The prisoners are responsible for getting themselves from one place to another, section by section, in order to prevent any trouble spreading between the different wings. Violence still flares up, but tends to die down in the same place it started before it can spread.
They reach the T-junction, where Salim and the guys from Malmö are already waiting for the door to be opened. Imre presses the button again.
Salim looks at the old mural from the 1980s: a pale beach with a young woman in a bikini.
‘While you were busy washing twenty tons of underwear, I got my high-school diploma,’ Marko says with a smile.
Instead of answering, Salim writes ‘Fuck you’ on the woman’s back with a stub of pencil.
After lunch the inmates are allowed an hour’s exercise in the yard. That’s their only time outside, when they can feel the wind on their faces, watch a butterfly float past in the summer, crunch the ice on a puddle in the winter.
When Joona gets out he sees that Salim is alone. He’s standing with his back against the fence.
The yard isn’t particularly large. It’s framed by buildings on two sides, and fences on the others. Further back is the tall wall, and beyond that the electric fence.
You can’t even see the treetops over the top of the wall, just the grey sky.
Two prison guards are watching the inmates.
Most of them are smoking; some of them talk in groups. Joona usually spends his time running, but today he walks with Marko, taking care to stay close to Salim, but not too close.
Joona and Marko pass the battered greenhouse. Reiner is standing by the volleyball net facing one of the security cameras. The rest of the Brotherhood are huddled together talking.
Joona knows that there’s a serious risk of trouble, and has already told Marko to get the guards if anything happens.
They pass the thin strip of sunlight reaching over the wall, and their long shadows stretch all the way to Salim Ratjen, who’s still standing with his back to the fence.
Marko stops to light a cigarette. Joona keeps walking, and as he passes Salim he takes a step towards him.
‘Why would you want to do me a favour?’ he asks, looking at Joona with sombre, golden-brown eyes.
‘Because then you’ll owe me when I get back,’ Joona replies matter-of-factly.
‘Why should I trust you?’
‘You don’t have to,’ Joona says, and keeps walking.
Rolf from the Brotherhood is walking straight towards them. Reiner is bouncing the ball on the ground, and shouts something to the two men who attacked Ratjen at breakfast.
‘I know who you are, Joona Linna,’ Salim Ratjen says.
‘Good,’ Joona replies.
‘The court was pretty tough on you.’
‘I have to ask you to keep your distance,’ Joona says. ‘I don’t belong to any groups. Not yours, and not anyone else’s either.’
‘Sorry,’ Salim says, but doesn’t move.
Joona can see that the two men from the Brotherhood are dragging their feet in the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Marko glances anxiously to his right and comes closer to Joona.
Reiner passes the volleyball to Rolf, who throws it straight back.
The dust from the path slowly drifts through the sunlight. Reiner holds the ball with both hands as he approaches Salim.
‘Reiner’s going to make his move any second now,’ Joona says.
He turns around and sees that the other two men are approaching from the opposite direction. They’re both carrying concealed weapons close to their bodies.
They kick up more dust, joking and jostling each other as they get closer.
Some other members of the Brotherhood have stopped Marko. They’re holding him by his shoulders, keeping him out of the way, making out like it’s all just for fun.
The Albanian guys from Malmö are smoking with the prison guards.
The dust in the yard grows thicker and the guards start to realise that something’s going on.
Joona takes a few steps closer towards Rolf with his hands outstretched, attempting to calm the situation.
‘Put the weapon down,’ he says.
Rolf is clutching a sharpened screwdriver, a simple weapon which limits the variety of possible attacks. Joona assumes that he’s likely to aim straight for his throat, or swing in from the right, beneath Joona’s left arm.
Reiner is still holding the ball in one hand as he approaches Salim from behind. He’s trying to hide a knife in his other hand.
Joona backs away, drawing Rolf after him.
Marko pulls free and manages to call the guards before he gets punched hard in the stomach.
Salim hears the cry and turns around. The ball hits him in the face and makes him take a step back, but he still manages to grab hold of the arm clutching the knife as Reiner lunges at him. He holds the blade away from him, but stumbles and falls backwards against the fence.
It’s a much more aggressive and dangerous attack than Joona was expecting.
Rolf mutters something and jabs with the screwdriver. Joona twists his body away, reaches past the arm with the weapon and grabs Rolf’s sleeve from behind. With full force he drives his left elbow up under the man’s shoulder. The blow is so hard that Rolf’s arm breaks. The end of the bone juts uselessly from his shoulder socket.
Rolf groans as he stumbles forward from the force of Joona’s blow. The screwdriver falls to the ground and his arm swings loose, held together by muscles and ligaments.
One of the men on the path runs over, clutching a homemade baton made of heavy nuts screwed to a large bolt.
Joona tries to parry the blow but he’s too late. The baton hits him in the back, and pain flares between his shoulder-blades. He falls forward onto his knees but manages to get to his feet again, coughing hard. He sees the next blow coming, jerks his head out of the way and feels the baton whistle past his head.
; Joona grabs the arm clutching the weapon. He uses the momentum to pull the man towards him, flips him over his hip and sends him crashing to the ground. Joona lands heavily on top of him with one knee on the man’s chest.
Rolf is still staggering around, clutching his shoulder and bellowing in agony.
Salim is on the ground, but uses his bleeding hand to push himself to his feet.
Marko comes running over, panting for breath. He stops in front of Joona and wipes the blood from his mouth.
‘I’ll say it was me,’ he says.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Joona replies quickly.
‘It’s OK,’ Marko gasps. ‘You’ve got to get out, to see Valeria.’
The dust is settling as Joona walks up to Salim Ratjen.
Reiner drops the knife on the ground and backs away.
The guys from Malmö are approaching from the other direction. The guards are talking anxiously into their radios.
Joona leads Salim straight past the Malmö guys. They make way to let them through, then close ranks again.
Marko goes over to the man Joona sent flying, shoves him in the back again, and hits him in the face just as the guards start hitting him with their telescopic batons.
Marko falls to the ground and curls up. They keep beating him. He tries to protect his face and neck, but they continue until his body goes limp.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Salim says to Joona.
‘Tell that to Marko.’
‘I will.’
Salim’s arm and hand are bleeding, but he doesn’t bother to look at his injuries.
‘Reiner is unpredictable,’ Joona says. ‘I don’t know what he wants with you, but it would be best to stay out of his way.’
They watch as more guards come into the yard carrying stretchers.
‘What are you planning to do outside?’ Salim asks.
‘I’m going to apply for a job.’
‘Where?’
‘The National Crime Unit,’ Joona replies.
Salim laughs, then grows serious as he eyes Reiner, who is standing over by the volleyball net.
‘You seem to think you’ll still be going,’ Salim suddenly says.
‘Marko’s taking the blame.’
‘Can I ask you to do me a favour?’
‘If I have time.’
Salim rubs his nose, then takes a step closer to Joona.
‘I really need to get a message to my wife,’ he says quietly.
‘What message?’
‘She needs to call a number and ask for Amira.’
‘That’s all?’
‘She’s changed her number, so you’ll have to go to her flat. She lives outside Stockholm, in Bandhagen: 10 Gnestavägen.’
‘And why would she open the door for me?’
‘Tell her you’ve got a message from da gawand halak, that’s me. It means the neighbour’s boy,’ he replies with a brief smile. ‘Parisa’s very shy, but if you say you’ve got a message from da gawand halak, she’ll let you in. Once you’re in she’ll offer you tea. Accept the offer … but wait until she’s taken out the olives and bread before passing on the message.’
30
David Jordan kicks his shoes off. He’s on the phone with the director of programming for news and social affairs at TV4.
The director is explaining that he’s putting together a long item about the Foreign Minister for the ten p.m. news.
DJ heads into the house and walks to the dining room. Light reflecting off the choppy sea floods in through the windows.
‘Did you know that Rex Müller and the Foreign Minister were old friends?’ DJ asks.
‘Really?’
‘And I think … well, I know that Rex would be happy to contribute if you wanted a personal angle,’ he says, his eyes wandering over the rocks down towards the jetty.
‘That would be great.’
‘I’ll tell him to give you a call.’
‘Yes, as soon as possible, please,’ the director says.
Waves are breaking over the jetty. The boat is straining at its ropes, its fenders bouncing against the water.
When they hang up DJ sends Rex a text telling him that the director of programming took the bait, but that he should wait forty minutes before calling so as not to appear too eager.
DJ has already composed a number of posts for Rex to use on social media. He’s fairly confident that those posts, combined with the television interview, will be enough to prevent a scandal. If people do find out that Rex pissed into the Foreign Minister’s swimming pool, they’ll interpret his action as a final prank between old friends. Rex will say that he’s sure the Foreign Minister must have burst out laughing when he looked at the security-camera footage before his morning swim.
DJ stays by the window. Thoughts are running through his mind. He’s taken care of Rex’s problem, and now it’s time to get to grips with his own. A lot of things have happened in his life recently that he can’t talk to anyone about.
Rex would listen, of course, but DJ’s job is to help Rex, not burden him with his own worries.
DJ goes into the kitchen and stops in front of the black leather folder on the marble counter, thinking that he should at least look at its contents before making a decision.
The waves below are lit up like molten glass.
David Jordan reaches out and tries to open the catch of the folder with his right hand, but can’t do it. It’s too stiff. His fingers don’t seem to have any strength. An immense tiredness settles over him. His neck can barely manage to hold his head up.
He fumbles weakly in his pockets, finds the little tub of Modiodal, and tips the pills onto the counter. He lets go of the empty container, which rolls onto the floor as he puts one pill on his tongue and swallows.
He can no longer close his mouth, but feels the tablet slip down his throat. Very gently he tries to lie down, and ends up on his side. He closes his eyes, but can still see the light through his eyelids.
He wakes up on the floor half an hour later.
David Jordan has suffered from narcolepsy and cataplexy for seven years. Whenever he gets upset or scared, he loses control of certain muscles and falls asleep.
According to his doctor, the disorder – which is inherited – was probably triggered by strep throat, even if he prefers to say that it’s because he was part of some secret experiment when he was in the military.
He sits up. His mouth feels completely dry. He leans on the floor with both hands, gets to his feet, head throbbing, and gazes out at the sea.
He tries to gather his thoughts before looking at the leather folder again.
His hands are shaking as he opens it and pulls out the contents.
He leafs through the information about Carl-Erik Ritter. His heart is beating so hard that his ears roar as he stares at the photograph.
He tries to find some sort of inner calm, and concentrates on reading.
After a while he has to put the documents down, go over to the cupboard and pour himself a glass of Macallan.
DJ drinks it, then refills the glass.
He’s thinking about his mother, and closes his eyes tightly to hold back the tears.
He isn’t a good son. He works too hard and doesn’t visit her nearly enough.
She’s ill, he knows that, but he still has difficulty accepting her dark moods.
He feels ashamed that his visits always make him feel so awful.
Most of the time she doesn’t say a word to him, doesn’t even look at him, just lies there in bed staring out of the window.
Throughout David Jordan’s childhood his mother received treatment for depression, delusions and self-destructive behaviour. A year ago he had her moved to an exclusive clinic that specialises in long-term psychiatric care.
There her depression is being treated as a side-effect of chronic PTSD. Her medication and therapy have been drastically adjusted.
The last time he visited she was no longer lying passively in bed. She took th
e flowers he had brought and put them in a vase with shaking hands. The illness and various medications have made his mother look very old.
They sat at a small table in her room drinking tea from cups with deep saucers, and eating ginger biscuits.
She kept repeating that she should have cooked him a proper meal, and each time he replied that he’d already eaten.
A film of raindrops covered the little window.
Her eyes were timid and embarrassed, and her hand fluttered anxiously over the buttons of her cardigan when he asked how she was, if the new medication was better.
‘I know I haven’t been a good mother,’ she said.
‘Yes, you have.’
He knew it was because of the altered medication, but this was the first time in many years that his mother had spoken directly to him.
She looked at him and explained in an almost scripted way that her suicide attempts when he was young were a reaction to trauma.
‘Have you started to talk to your therapist about the accident?’ he asked.
‘Accident?’ she repeated with a smile.
‘Mum, you know you’re not well, and sometimes you weren’t able to take care of me, so I went to live with Grandma.’
Slowly she put her cup down on the saucer, then told him about the horrific rape.
She described the whole sequence of events in a subdued voice.
The fragments of memory were sometimes chillingly precise, and sometimes she sounded almost delusional.
But suddenly everything made sense to David Jordan.
His mother never let him see her naked when he was little, but he still managed to catch glimpses of the scars on her thighs and her damaged breasts.
‘I never reported it,’ she whispered.
‘But …’
He remembers how she sat there with her thin hand over her mouth, sobbing, then whispered the name Carl-Erik Ritter.
His cheeks flushed. He tried to say something, but suffered his worst ever attack of narcolepsy.
DJ woke up on the floor to find his mother patting his cheek. He almost couldn’t believe it.
He had spent his entire adult life being disappointed in his mother for not fighting harder against her depression.