The Rabbit Hunter

by Lars Kepler

  Edith’s phone starts to ring out in the kitchen, sounding muffled inside her bag. Rex looks at the two champagne glasses on the bedside table, the pink lipstick on one of them, the tiny bubbles clinging to them. He leans his head back and remembers what he said about Sammy at the award ceremony. On the ceiling he discovers two pale circles that must somehow be reflections from the glasses.

  He realises he must have nodded off when he feels Edith’s unbelievably soft lips close around his penis. She raises her head and looks at him anxiously, then continues.

  He sees the bed and his own pale form reflected in the skylight. He can’t understand why he ends up in the same situation every time he drinks. It’s a script that he sets in motion yet is powerless to prevent.

  She crawls up the bed and straddles him, guiding his half-erect cock inside her. She kisses him. He thrusts tentatively so as not to slip out of her. She looks into his eyes and lifts his right hand to one of her breasts. He stiffens inside her and she leans forward and moans into his mouth.

  ‘Your phone rang,’ he says groggily.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know who it was?’

  ‘Don’t talk so much,’ she smiles.

  The gentle waves of her hair are sticking to her forehead. Her lipstick is gone, and her mascara has run beneath her eyes like a black shadow.

  She breathes harder and puts her hands on his chest, so that almost her whole weight is resting on him, then leans back and sighs.

  Rex caresses her breasts and watches them press together again and again. She’s gasping and moving faster. Her thighs start to tremble and she closes her eyes.

  ‘Keep going,’ she groans.

  He comes without having time to react, ejaculates right inside her. There’s no point pulling out now, it’s too late, and he just lets it happen, feeling the contractions and the slow comedown.

  Edith’s cheeks, neck and breasts are flushed. She opens her eyes, flashes him a wide smile, and slowly begins to move her hips again. A shimmering trickle of sweat has run from her armpit down to her hip.

  60

  Rex wakes up naked in bed, gasping for breath as if he’s been underwater. His heart is pounding anxiously. He looks at the time and sees that it’s half past two.

  Edith is gone.

  He must not have noticed her creep out.

  With a groan, he sits up and tries to find his phone, but the room is spinning so much that he can’t focus. He stands up, head throbbing, and comes very close to falling over. He screws his eyes shut and leans against the wall for a while before he can continue. The phone is under the bed. Odd images swirl around his head as he crouches down and tries to reach it.

  His phone says he’s missed nine calls from Sammy.

  Rex feels a cold shiver of angst.

  He tries to call but can’t get through. Either his son’s phone is switched off, or he’s run out of battery.

  He sees that Sammy has left three voicemails, and clicks to listen to them. His fingers are shaking.

  ‘Dad, if you feel like coming early that would be great.’

  There’s a click and the call ends. The next message is from a few hours later, and Sammy sounds considerably more tired this time.

  ‘It’s half past one now. Are you on your way?’

  After a brief pause his son says in a low voice:

  ‘Nico was mad and ignored me all night, and now he’s with some girl and I’m left here with a bunch of idiots.’

  Rex hears him sigh to himself.

  ‘I’ll be waiting on the side of the road outside the house.’

  Rex stands up and listens to the last message. The walls lurch away from him the moment he tries to focus on them.

  ‘I’m going to start walking, Dad. Hope you’re OK.’

  He pulls on the clothes that are lying on the floor, bangs into a wall and tries to suppress the urge to throw up. He weaves his way out into the hall, finds DJ’s car keys on the dresser, pulls on his shoes and jogs downstairs.

  When he emerges into the cool air, he walks straight over to some recycling bins and throws up between the green containers.

  He shivers as if he has frostbite and throws up again, feeling lumps of the buffet from Café Opera press their way through his throat.

  Legs shaking, Rex makes his way to DJ’s car. He pulls out Sammy’s note and taps the address into the GPS.

  Rex drives off towards Nykvarn. His lingering intoxication makes the world spin outside the windshield. His hands shake on the wheel and sweat runs down his back, and he prays silently to himself that nothing bad has happened.

  He tries calling Sammy again, but the car lurches and a lorry honks its horn at him.

  While he drives, memories from the past evening slowly become clearer: his drinking, Edith’s patient coaxing of his faltering erection.

  In the early morning light, the city looks like it’s rising from the sea: church spires and imposing buildings break the surface, water runs off rooftops, gushes from windows and doors, down streets and squares.

  The water runs away, revealing glistening fragments of the night.

  Champagne splashing over floors and sheets, her hand on his head as he licked her, her sweating thighs against his cheeks, the floor lamp toppling over and going out.

  Somewhere in the middle of it all he started to get dressed to take a taxi out to Djursholm, before remembering that the Foreign Minister was dead.

  He tripped over her bag, picked it back up and saw a knife in there along with her purse and make-up case.

  Rex swerves again as an ambulance passes by silently, blue lights flashing.

  He shudders and lowers his speed.

  After Södertälje the traffic gets thinner and the highway is almost empty.

  Rex speeds up again, passes a tranquil lake, and then there’s nothing but forest.

  He looks at the GPS and sees that the turn-off for Nykvarn is five kilometres away. Then he’ll have to make his way to an isolated place called Tubergslund.

  He passes a white van with a sheet of cardboard taped across its rear window, turns the indicator on and is about to pull back into the right-hand lane when he sees a thin figure trying to hitchhike on the other side of the highway.

  Realising that it’s Sammy, Rex reacts instinctively and pulls off onto the gravel at the side of the road, braking so hard that the tyres slide across the uneven surface.

  The van driver lets out a long blast of his horn as he drives past.

  Rex gets out of the car without closing the door and runs back along the hard shoulder. He waits until a white bus has passed before rushing across the two lanes. He walks down the tall grass divider as a series of cars drive past. He quickly dashes across the other lanes, then starts running after Sammy.

  A huge articulated lorry makes the ground shake. The turbulence once it’s passed swirls rubbish and dust into the air around him.

  He tries to run faster when he sees Sammy up ahead, lit up in the headlights of the lorry as it thunders past. His thin frame turns red for a few seconds in the glow of its rear lights.

  ‘Sammy!’ Rex shouts, and stops running, gasping for breath. ‘Sammy!’

  His son turns around, sees him, but keeps his thumb up as the next car approaches.

  Rex hurries on, panting, sweat running down his back.

  ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry, I fell asleep …’

  ‘I was relying on you,’ his son says, and keeps walking.

  ‘Sammy,’ Rex pleads, trying to get him to stop. ‘I don’t know what to say … I don’t want to admit it, but the truth is that I’m an alcoholic. It’s an illness, and I had a relapse earlier this evening.’

  Sammy turns around and looks at him at last. His face is pale and he looks exhausted.

  ‘I’m ashamed,’ Rex says. ‘I’m so ashamed, but I’m doing my best to deal with it.’

  ‘I know, Dad, and that’s really good,’ his son replies seriously.

  ‘Did your mum tell yo
u I’m going to AA meetings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course she did,’ Rex mutters.

  ‘I assumed you didn’t want to talk about it,’ Sammy says.

  ‘I just want to say … I haven’t been taking it seriously, but I will be from now on.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m bound to fall off the wagon again, but at least now I’m admitting I’ve got a problem, and I know it’s hurt you …’

  His voice breaks and hot tears spring to his eyes. Cars rush past, lighting up Sammy’s face briefly.

  ‘Can we go home?’ he asks, and sees the hesitant look on Sammy’s face. ‘I don’t mean I should drive. We can walk to Södertälje and get a taxi from there.’

  They start walking together as a police car passes by on the other side of the highway. Rex turns around and sees it stop right behind DJ’s car.

  61

  Verner Sandén leans back in his chair and looks at Saga, who is standing in front of his large desk.

  ‘I know how the Security Police work,’ she says quietly, putting her pistol and ID card on the desk.

  ‘You’re not being fired, you’re just on leave,’ Verner says.

  ‘There’s no way—’

  ‘Don’t get angry now,’ Verner interrupts. ‘I can’t deal with that.’

  ‘There’s no way in hell that I’m going to let a murderer keep killing just because it suits the Security Police,’ she concludes.

  ‘That’s why we’re paying for you to go off to the Canary Islands.’

  ‘I’d rather take a shot in the back of the neck,’ she says.

  ‘Now you’re just being childish.’

  ‘I can accept the fact that we’re saying the Foreign Minister died of natural causes, but I can’t let this go. That’s out of the question.’

  ‘Janus is in charge of the investigation,’ Verner explains.

  ‘He told me he’d been put in charge of the logistics surrounding the funeral.’

  ‘But after that he’ll be picking up where you left off,’ he says.

  ‘That doesn’t exactly scream high priority to me.’

  Verner adjusts some papers in front of him, then clasps his hands together.

  ‘There’s no need for you to get angry,’ he says. ‘I think it will do you good to get away for a while, get a bit of distance from—’

  ‘I’m not angry,’ she says, taking a step closer to him.

  ‘Saga, I know you’re disappointed about the operation at the marina,’ he says. ‘But the upside is that this has led to us getting an increased budget, and that means we’ll be able to fight real terrorists much better.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘We’re already getting requests from other security services to share our experiences.’

  ‘So you’re playing with the big boys now,’ she says with a smile, as irritable red spots start to appear on her forehead.

  ‘No … well, yes, we’re at least in the same playing field,’ Verner confirms.

  ‘Fine. Then I need to keep working,’ she says.

  ‘You had information on your computer that jeopardised the confidentiality of the operation. That’s a serious offence against the democratic state.’

  ‘I know what confidentiality is,’ Saga snaps. ‘But the Foreign Minister is dead – isn’t he?’

  ‘He died a natural death,’ Verner points out.

  ‘Who’s going to find the killer?’

  ‘What killer?’ he asks, looking at her without blinking.

  ‘Absalon was sliced open in front of his wife and children by the same—’

  ‘That’s very sad news.’

  ‘By the same killer.’

  ‘Janus doesn’t think there’s any connection between the deaths – which is why we’re having to deprioritise the investigation.’

  ‘I have to keep looking,’ she says in an agitated voice.

  ‘OK, so keep looking.’

  ‘No damn holiday.’

  ‘Fine … but you have to work with Janus.’

  ‘And Joona,’ she adds.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You promised Joona an unconditional pardon.’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t you dare lie to me,’ she says threateningly.

  ‘If you’re referring to confidential material, I must remind you that—’

  She sweeps her hand across his desk, sending his phone and a stack of reports flying.

  ‘I’ll continue the investigation with Joona,’ she says.

  ‘Why are we even talking about him?’

  ‘Joona understands killers, I don’t know how, but he does. And now you’ve sent him back to Kumla.’

  ‘You’re not to have any contact with Joona Linna, and that’s an order—’

  Saga knocks a coffee cup and a thick folder to the floor.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ Verner asks.

  ‘You promised Joona, you fucking promised him!’ she screams.

  ‘Now you won’t get that vacation after all,’ he says.

  ‘Fuck the fucking Canaries!’ Saga snarls, and marches towards the door.

  62

  While DJ helps Sammy with his black suit, Rex goes into his bedroom to call Sammy’s mother. As the call goes through, he sighs and thinks about everything that happened. The cops towed DJ’s car and Sammy and Rex caught a taxi home. Sammy was still asleep when Rex woke up at ten o’clock with a pounding headache. He went up to the kitchen and opened the door of the wine-cooler. He picked the most expensive bottle, a Romanée-Conti from 1996, pulled out the cork, and poured the wine away. He watched the red liquid swirl down the drain before getting the next bottle.

  ‘Hello?’

  Veronica sounds stressed. There’s a rumbling, rattling sound in the background, and a woman crying wearily.

  ‘It’s Rex,’ he says, and clears his throat. ‘Sorry if this is a bad time …’

  ‘What is it?’ she asks bluntly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, yesterday,’ he says, and feels tears prick his eyes. ‘I had a drink and … I …’

  ‘Sammy already called. He said you’re getting along fine, that you had a drink yesterday but that it was nothing to worry about, and that everything was good.’

  ‘What?’ Rex whispers.

  ‘I’m so happy that Sammy’s happy. He hasn’t had an easy time of things, you know.’

  ‘Veronica, it’s been …’ he begins, and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. ‘It’s been good for me to get to know Sammy … I hope that’s something that we can continue.’

  ‘We can talk later,’ she says curtly. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  Rex sits with the phone in his hand. Sammy is much more mature than he thought. He’s already called his mother, lying and saying things are fine to make sure she doesn’t drop everything and rush home.

  Fifteen minutes later Rex is sitting in the back seat with Sammy in a black Uber, listening to DJ tell the driver that they can get out on Regerings Street and walk the last stretch to the church.

  The driver tries to turn around, but the side-street is blocked with huge concrete roadblocks and a traffic cop waves them straight on instead.

  For security reasons the whole area around St Johannes’ Church has been cordoned off.

  The guests include members of the Swedish government, the foreign ministers of the Nordic countries, the ambassadors of Germany, France, Spain and Britain. But the main reason for the heavy security is the presence of the acting US Defence Secretary, Teddy Johnson, who was a personal friend of the Foreign Minister’s. Because Johnson was involved in the administration’s decision to invade Iraq, he’s regarded as a high security risk.

  ‘Sammy, I don’t know if you noticed, but I got rid of all the wine and spirits in the house.’

  ‘I heard you doing it this morning,’ his son says quietly.

  ‘I realise that I can’t trust myself,’ Rex goes on. ‘You know, I despise the alcoholics at those meetings, but I’
m no better than any of them. It’s hard to admit, but I’m the worst dad in the world, and it serves me right if you hate me.’

  The atmosphere is still subdued when they get out of the car and start to walk up David Bagares Street. The three of them are dressed in black suits, white shirts and black ties, but Sammy has tucked a red handkerchief in his breast pocket.

  Police officers and security guards have been stationed at strategic positions around the church. Bus routes have been redirected. All the litter bins have been removed, manhole covers welded shut. The airspace above the church has been closed, so that only police and ambulance helicopters are allowed. Neighbouring buildings have been searched, sniffer-dogs have checked the whole of the cordoned-off area.

  Blue lights sweep the street as Rex, DJ and Sammy approach the next roadblock. A police van is parked in front of riot barriers, and police officers with automatic pistols hanging by their hips stop them to check their invitations and IDs against the guest list.

  ‘I know not everyone likes me, but this amount of security seems over the top,’ Rex jokes.

  ‘We just want to make sure you’re safe,’ the police officer smiles as he lets them through.

  A long line of guests snakes past the graves, up the broad steps leading to the church, to the security check at the church doors.

  Rex is following Sammy and DJ through the crowd when a journalist from one of the evening papers stops him and asks for a short interview.

  ‘What did the Foreign Minister mean to you?’ the reporter asks, aiming a large microphone at Rex.

  ‘We were old friends,’ Rex says, running one hand instinctively through his hair. ‘He was a wonderful person … a …’

  The bald-faced lie makes him lose his thread. Suddenly he doesn’t know what to say, how to continue the sentence. The journalist looks at him with a neutral expression. The microphone wavers in front of Rex’s mouth and he starts to say that he’s brought his son to the funeral before stopping himself.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m a bit shaken. It’s such a loss … my thoughts are with his family.’

  He excuses himself with a gesture and turns away, then pauses a couple of seconds before moving towards the church to try to find DJ and Sammy in the crowd.