The Rabbit Hunter

by Lars Kepler

  The lamp keeps swaying for a while, its light sliding over the walls.

  ‘Valeria … I’m not really here on leave,’ Joona says.

  ‘Did you escape?’ she asks with a smile.

  ‘Not this time,’ he replies.

  She lowers her bright, brown eyes, and her face turns almost grey, as if she were trapped behind a wall of ice.

  ‘I knew it would happen. I knew you’d go back to being a police officer,’ she says, swallowing hard.

  ‘I’m not a police officer, but I’ve been forced to do one last job. There was no other option.’

  She leans gently against the wall. She’s still not looking at him. The veins in her neck are throbbing hard, and her lips are pale.

  ‘Were you ever in prison for real?’

  ‘I accepted the job the day before yesterday,’ he replies.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m done with the police.’

  ‘No,’ she smiles. ‘Well, you may believe that, but I could always tell you wanted to get back in.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ he says, even though he realises that it is.

  ‘I’ve never been as in love with anyone as I was with you,’ she says slowly, switching the stove off. ‘I know I’ve failed at most things in my life, and I know being a gardener isn’t much to brag about … But when I found out that you were in Kumla … I don’t know, I felt like I didn’t have to feel ashamed in front of you any more, that you’d understand. But now … You don’t want to work here. Why on earth would you? You’ll always be a police officer. That’s just who you are, and I know that.’

  ‘I’d be happy here,’ Joona says.

  ‘It wouldn’t work,’ she replies, her voice catching.

  ‘It would.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Joona, it’s fine,’ she says.

  ‘I’m a police officer. It’s part of who I am. My dad died when he was on duty … He wouldn’t have wanted to see me in uniform, but he’d rather that than prison clothes.’

  She looks down and folds her arms over her chest.

  ‘I’m probably overreacting, but I’d like you to leave,’ she says quietly.

  Joona nods slowly, runs his hand along the table, then stands up.

  ‘OK, how about this,’ he says, trying to catch her eye. ‘I’ll book a room in a little hotel in Vasastan, the Hotel Hansson. I have to be back at Kumla again tomorrow, but I hope you’ll visit me before I go, regardless of whether or not I’m a police officer.’

  When he leaves the kitchen she looks away quickly so he won’t see that she’s on the verge of bursting into tears. She hears his heavy footsteps in the hall, then hears the door open and close.

  Valeria goes over to the window and watches him get in his car and drive away. When he’s gone she sinks to the floor with her back against the radiator and lets the tears come, all the tears that have been dammed up inside her since high school, when a chasm opened up between them.

  39

  Saga locks her motorcycle and starts walking down Luntmakar Street while she thinks about how quickly Joona infiltrated Salim Ratjen’s organisation. The operation is supposed to start in two hours.

  She passes a vegetarian Asian restaurant and sees a couple in their fifties having a meal. They’re holding each other’s hands over the table between the dishes and glasses.

  Saga realises that she’s forgotten to eat anything since the Foreign Minister was murdered.

  Everyone has been affected by the threat facing the country.

  Jeanette went home sick after their trip to see Tamara at Nyköpingsbro. Saga had to drive back to Stockholm while Jeanette lay curled up on the back seat with her eyes closed.

  Janus’s eyes were bloodshot and he was chugging water when she met him in the office that morning.

  He hadn’t shaved, and admitted that he hadn’t been home to his family, he’d slept in his car. It occurs to her that she needs to talk to him about the importance of taking his medication. She knows he spent several weeks in hospital after he was dismissed from the military, but that he has managed his illness very well since then.

  Janus’s colleagues have looked through the security-camera footage from the Foreign Minister’s hard-drive. There’s no sign of the killer, even though he must have been there at least once before to do reconnaissance.

  But three weeks ago the cameras caught another intruder on film.

  In the middle of the night Rex Müller, the celebrity chef, was filmed climbing over the fence, crossing the lawn and weaving his way up onto the deck.

  The recording shows him urinating straight into the illuminated swimming pool. Then he goes around collecting garden gnomes and throwing them into the pool, one after the other.

  It’s hard to see any connection to the murder, but it’s undoubtedly an aggressive and unbalanced act.

  Wiping the sweat from his upper lip, Janus stressed several times that no expression of hatred could be disregarded. A few hostile words in the comments section or on a Facebook or Instagram post could be the prelude to a horrifying hate-crime.

  Rex fetches the ashtray Sammy has left on the balcony, rinses it, and is putting it in the dishwasher when the doorbell rings. Leaving the tap running, he hurries downstairs.

  The most beautiful woman he has ever seen is standing outside his door.

  ‘My name is Saga Bauer. I work for the Security Police,’ she says, looking directly at him.

  ‘The Security Police?’ he says.

  She shows him her ID.

  ‘OK,’ he replies, without looking at it.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she asks.

  Rex backs away, hears the water running in the kitchen and remembers that he was busy washing dishes.

  The police officer kicks off her worn trainers and nudges them aside.

  ‘Can we go to the kitchen?’ he says weakly. ‘I was just filling the dishwasher and …’

  She nods and follows him up the stairs to the kitchen. He turns the water off and looks at her.

  ‘Do you … would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ she says, looking out at the view of the city. ‘You knew the Foreign Minister, didn’t you?’

  She turns to look at him, and Rex notices that one of her big toes is sticking out of a hole in her sock.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ he replies, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t know it was so serious, he hardly ever mentioned his illness … Typical of men of a certain age, I suppose, always thinking they have to keep things to themselves …’

  His voice fades away.

  She goes over to the kitchen table, stares at the bowl of limes for a while before looking up at him again.

  ‘But you were fond of him?’

  Rex shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘We hadn’t seen a lot of each other in recent years. We’ve both been so busy … That’s always the way if you want a successful career. Everything has its price.’

  ‘You’d known him a long time,’ she says, putting her hand on the back of one of the chairs.

  ‘Since high school. We were at the same boarding school, Ludviksberg. We were in the same gang … spoiled kids, really, no joke was too coarse for us, no prank too extreme,’ he lies.

  ‘Sounds fun,’ she says drily.

  ‘Best time of my life,’ he smiles, then turns towards the dishwasher because he can’t bear the insincerity on his own face.

  When he looks over at her again he feels a sudden cramp in his chest. Some of the blood from the night DJ came to his flat is clearly visible on one of the kitchen chairs. How could he have missed it when he was cleaning? Somehow the blood has run under the armrest and frozen into dark, congealed drops.

  ‘Why do I get the impression you’re not telling the truth?’

  ‘My face, probably,’ Rex suggests. ‘It just looks like this, there’s no point trying to change it.’

  She doesn’t smile, just lowers her gaze for a moment, then looks up at him again.

  ‘W
hen did you last see the Foreign Minister?’

  ‘I don’t remember. We met for coffee a few weeks ago,’ he lies, running his hand nervously through his hair.

  The look in her pale eyes is serious, thoughtful.

  ‘Have you spoken to his wife?’

  ‘No. I don’t really know her, we’ve only met a couple of times.’

  He can’t think about anything but the blood. It feels like everything he says is empty and false.

  She takes her hands off the chair and walks around the table without taking her eyes off him.

  ‘What are you hiding from me?’

  ‘I need to keep a few secrets so you have to come back.’

  ‘You don’t want me to come back, believe me.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘I’ll shoot you in the kneecap,’ she says, but can’t help smiling at his stupid grin.

  ‘Shall we go and sit in the orangery?’ he suggests with a vague gesture. ‘It’s a bit cooler there …’

  She follows him to the covered part of the roof terrace and sits down on one of the fluffy sheepskin armchairs around the old marble table.

  Rex tries to think of a reason to go back inside, so he can wipe the chair with bleach and get rid of the evidence before she has time to react.

  ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ he suggests.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she says, stroking the leaves of a large pot of lemon balm with one hand.

  ‘Champagne?’

  She smiles wearily and he notices the scar running across her eyebrow. Somehow it only makes her seem more alive.

  ‘Did the Foreign Minister ever mention feeling threatened?’ she asks.

  ‘Threatened? No … I don’t think so,’ he replies, and feels his skin crawl as it dawns on him that the Foreign Minister was murdered.

  Why else would the Security Police be involved?

  The Foreign Minister wasn’t sick, that’s just what the public is being told.

  Rex feels sweat break out on his top lip when he thinks back to what he said just now about the Foreign Minister not wanting to talk about his illness. He implied that he knew about it but didn’t understand how serious it was.

  ‘Well, I must be going,’ she says, and gets to her feet.

  He goes back into the kitchen with her. She stops by the table and turns to look at him.

  ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ she asks seriously.

  ‘No, just what I already said, really … that sometimes we went a bit too far with our jokes.’

  Instead of leaving, the agent pulls the chair away from the table, sits down and looks up at him with an expression that tells him she’s expecting to hear the truth now.

  ‘But you did occasionally go and see him out in Djursholm?’

  ‘No,’ he whispers, looking at the kitchen cupboard where the bleach is kept.

  If the Foreign Minister really was murdered, then his little prank won’t just be seen as a scandalous act, it will make him a suspect.

  Rex can feel himself starting to panic, and wonders if he ought to admit what he really thought about the Foreign Minister, then swear that he could never hurt anyone.

  He’s never done anything violent, but realises that his attempt to help DJ the previous evening could also have serious consequences.

  There hasn’t been anything about an assault or murder in the local news, but there was a lot of blood, and DJ was convinced that the man was seriously hurt.

  Maybe he’s still on the operating table? If he dies, Rex could be charged as an accessory to murder, or at least go down for harbouring a felon.

  If the police officer moves her hand just a fraction further forward, she’ll feel the congealed blood.

  ‘When was the last time you were in Djursholm?’

  Rex stares at her hand.

  ‘I’d love to talk about old memories, but I need to get going … I’m changing the menu at the restaurant, and …’

  She drums her fingers on both armrests, then leans back and looks at him intently. Her fingers are right next to the blood.

  ‘Did he ever mention a man with a double face?’

  ‘No,’ he replies quickly.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be wondering what I mean?’ she asks. ‘If you didn’t know what I was referring to?’

  ‘I suppose so, but …’

  Her index finger idly nudges one of the sticky drops of blood.

  ‘But what?’

  Rex comes close to running his hand through his hair again, but manages to stop himself.

  ‘I really am in a bit of a hurry and … well, to be honest, I don’t really see how I can help you.’

  ‘Don’t be surprised if I come back,’ she says, and stands up.

  She walks around the chair, slowly tucks it back under the table and looks him in the eye for a few moments before heading towards the stairs.

  40

  Joona parks beside a battered white trailer at 16 Almnäsvägen out in Bandhagen. He looks at the time and thinks about his interview with Sofia Stefansson again.

  They’re dealing with a killer who is acting outside the frame of his remit, in spite of his exceptional military training.

  He takes meticulous care not to leave any evidence, but he still leaves a witness.

  He’s incredibly fast and efficient, yet he lets ten minutes pass without doing anything. He’s perfectly calm, shows no sign of nerves, he doesn’t pray, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t make any demands.

  That empty period of time must be somehow important to him, it must be a ritual on some level, Joona thinks.

  But if that’s true, then the motives behind the murder are far more complex than they’ve assumed. It means that this can’t be as simple as a conventional terrorist act.

  The door to the trailer opens and a woman in a green raincoat comes out, pulling the hood up over her blonde hair. Joona gets out of the car and goes over to her.

  ‘Joona Linna,’ she says.

  ‘That’s my name too,’ he replies, holding out his hand.

  She wipes the smile off her face.

  ‘My name is Ingrid Holm. I’ll take you to the boss.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ingrid leads him through a gate in an unpainted fence between the house and garage, and into a patch of woodland. The air smells like heather and warm moss. As the wind blows through the treetops dry pine needles fall to the ground.

  ‘You need to follow my footsteps exactly so you won’t be seen from the road,’ she says, stopping him at the brow of the hill.

  Ingrid calls someone on her radio, listens, then waits for a few seconds. She tells Joona to crouch down, then leads him past two pine trees and behind a large rock covered in white moss before indicating that it’s OK to stand up again. They change direction, and walk along a well-worn path past some tall lilacs and out across a lawn behind a yellow wooden house with white windows and eaves. An old red barbecue and a small trampoline are marooned in the tall weeds next to an old apple tree.

  Ingrid leads Joona to the white veranda door. There are police officers in bulletproof vests standing in the hall, kitchen and living room. There’s an anxious smell like sweat and gun-grease. Semiautomatic rifles swing from leather straps, black helmets litter the floor. All the downstairs windows have been screened to conceal the activity inside the house.

  ‘The first group are in the kitchen,’ she says, gesturing beyond the staircase.

  Joona pushes past a group of black-clad men waiting restlessly at the bottom of the stairs.

  None of them know that several of them will be dead within a few hours.

  The members of Operational Unit 1 are squeezed into the little kitchen. This is Gustav’s team, the ones who will be first in behind Joona, forcing their way through the doors and windows if a hostile situation arises.

  ‘Joona?’ a man with dark-brown eyes asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Joona Linna, he’s going to be the first man in,’ the man expl
ains to the others.

  ‘And we’re the ones who are going to rescue you,’ a man with a shaved head and thick neck says.

  ‘I feel safer already.’ Joona smiles, and shakes hands with the four men, who introduce themselves in turn: Adam, August, Jamal, and Sonny.

  ‘This is my day off,’ Sonny says. ‘But there was no way I wanted to miss this.’

  Adam is walking around, making the floor creak. He takes swigs from a small can of Red Bull as he adjusts his vest and clothing.

  ‘Do you want me to call your brother and let him know you have your own wings today?’ August asks from where he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the wall.

  ‘His big brother’s the flight engineer on one of our choppers,’ Jamal says.

  Sonny looks in the fridge, finds a jar of jam and sniffs at a carton of vanilla yogurt.

  ‘I don’t like your chances of finding terrorists in there,’ August says, then yawns.

  ‘But if I do, I’ll kill them,’ Sonny mutters, eating some smoked ham out of a plastic pack.

  ‘Is Gustav upstairs?’ Joona asks.

  ‘Yes, he’s going through the last details with Janus,’ Jamal replies.

  One of the men from the Rapid Response Unit is sitting on the bottom step, staring into space. As Joona approaches he jumps up and gets out of the way, his movements jerky with nerves.

  Joona goes up the creaking wooden staircase and finds himself in a spacious open landing leading to two bedrooms. Here too the windows have been covered. Everyone is already in position. All conversation is subdued and terse.

  Janus is looking at the original plans for the building across the way, discussing something with Gustav.

  ‘Back in black,’ Janus says, shaking Joona’s hand.

  ‘What are your thoughts about the operation?’ Gustav asks.

  ‘Everything will probably go smoothly,’ Joona says. ‘But if things heat up, I must warn you that the killer is far more dangerous than we initially thought.’

  ‘We’ve got the situation under control,’ Janus says, with a note of impatience in his voice.