The Disciple

by Michael Hjorth

  But now he could feel the exhaustion taking hold. The hours on the hillock outside Vanja’s apartment. The sex. Last night it had been Ellinor, the night before and tomorrow someone else. The empty apartment. The empty life. He had to do something. Anything. Change things. He took out his mobile and keyed in the number.

  Trolle answered almost right away.

  ‘I was just wondering when you were going to call,’ a hoarse, sleepy voice said.

  ‘I’ve had things to do,’ Sebastian replied as he started to walk away from Vanja’s building with the phone pressed to his ear. ‘I’ve been away.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. You’ve been following her. The daughter.’

  Sebastian stiffened for a second before he realised that Trolle was referring to Valdemar’s daughter. Of course.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I’m better than you.’ It seemed to Sebastian that he could hear his former colleague smiling smugly on the other end of the line.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to check her out,’ Sebastian said crossly.

  ‘I know, but I’m thorough. An old-school cop.’

  ‘Did you find out anything?’

  ‘This and that. But no dirt. The old man seems to be a paragon of virtue.’ Trolle paused, and Sebastian could hear him riffling through papers which in all probability were in a heap in front of him.

  ‘His name is Ernst Valdemar Lithner. Born in Gothenburg in 1953. Started off at Chalmers, then changed to economics. Married Anna Eriksson in 1981; she didn’t take his surname, by the way. No ex-wives or other children. No police record. Worked as an accountant for some years, then had a change of heart in ’97 and did a few different things – everything from bookkeeping to tax advice. He must have made good money, because he paid the deposit on Vanja’s apartment and bought a big summer place in Vaxholm the following year. No lovers that I can discover, male or female, but I’ve got someone hacking into his computer, so we’ll see. He got sick last year.’

  ‘What do you mean, sick?’

  ‘Some kind of cell mutation in the lungs. Cancer, the thing that gets us all in the end. What did your mother die of ?’

  Sebastian didn’t even respond to the implication that Trolle had clearly spent some time checking out him as well as Lithner over the last couple of weeks. He shivered in spite of the heat. Valdemar had cancer? That couldn’t be right. The man who had stolen his daughter seemed to be full of life. Perhaps it was just a mask he assumed when he was with Vanja, making an effort for her sake.

  ‘He’s been in remission since the spring,’ Trolle went on. ‘Whatever that’s worth. My contact hasn’t managed to get hold of his notes, but he’s only booked in for normal follow-up appointments, so he must be out of danger.’

  Sebastian grunted with disappointment.

  ‘Okay . . . anything else?’

  ‘Not really. But I’ve only just started. I can dig much deeper if you want me to.’

  Sebastian thought about it. This was worse than he had imagined. Not only was Valdemar loved by his daughter, he had just survived cancer. A saint who had returned to his family from death’s waiting room.

  Sebastian didn’t have a chance. It was over.

  ‘No, there’s no need. Thanks anyway.’

  He ended the call.

  So much for that particular plan.

  His third day in the job. He had finally got hold of one of those machines that allowed you to print out labels and self-adhesive strips, and he was now standing in the corridor in front of the metal plate which indicated that this room was the domain of the governor. He removed the protective strip from the back of the printed label and stuck it on the door. It was a bit crooked, but it didn’t matter. It was perfectly legible. Governor Thomas Haraldsson.

  He stepped back and looked at the sign with a contented little smile.

  A new job.

  A new life.

  He had applied for the post several months ago, but hadn’t really expected to get it. Not that he wasn’t well qualified, but it had been a period in his life when nothing was going his way. Things were bad at work; he didn’t get on with his new boss, Kerstin Hanser, and professional success had been eluding him, to be honest. This was largely down to the fact that Hanser refused to acknowledge what an asset he was, and actively worked against him, but even so. It had started to get him down. The situation at home was also rather strained. It wasn’t down to a lack of love, or the fact that they’d got into a rut, it was just that things were very . . . focused. His wife Jenny had embarked on a series of fertility tests, and their entire lives centred on her attempts to get pregnant. Her every waking thought was fixed on conception, while he was obsessed with Hanser, the job, and a growing sense of bitterness. Nothing felt right, and Haraldsson hadn’t dared to hope that he might get the job he had applied for towards the end of the winter, purely on the off chance. The advert had stated that the position would not be filled until the summer, so he had carried on working with the Västerås police and had more or less forgotten his application. Then that boy had been murdered, Riksmord had been brought in, and Haraldsson had ended up having surgery following a bullet wound. To the chest, if he was describing the incident. To the lower part of the shoulder, according to his notes. At any rate, he wasn’t yet fully recovered. It still pulled a little; he could feel it as he smoothed down his new name label one more time.

  Somehow the bullet wound had been a turning point. When he came round after the operation, Jenny had been there. Anxious, but also thankful that he had survived. That he was still there. They were told that he had been lucky. The bullet had created a split in the parietal pleura, the membrane lining the chest cavity that contains the lungs. This had caused a bleed into the pleural cavity itself, and consequently in the upper lobe of the right lung. Haraldsson just knew that getting shot was extremely painful. He had been off work for three weeks. While he was at home he had time to think about what things would be like when he got back to the station. No doubt the chief superintendent would give some kind of welcome-back speech, highlighting his heroic contribution; perhaps there was even a minor medal for just such an occasion: injured in the course of duty. There would be coffee and cake, of course, gentle pats on the back to avoid causing any discomfort to his injured chest, and a desire on the part of his colleagues to know how he was feeling and what he thought.

  It hadn’t quite turned out that way.

  No chief superintendent, no speech, no medal, but the girls on reception had organised a cake. There hadn’t been all that much curiosity or too many pats on the back either, but he still felt that a change had taken place. There was something about the way his colleagues received him, how they treated him. He wanted to believe there was a certain measure of respect. Respect, and perhaps subconsciously a sense of relief. Not many police officers were shot in the line of duty, and from a purely statistical point of view it was highly unlikely that it would happen again in Västerås in the foreseeable future. He had taken a bullet for the entire team, so to speak. For the first time in ages he had felt happy going to work. In spite of Hanser.

  Something had happened at home, too. They were more relaxed, closer to one another, as if the life they had together right now was more important than the life they were trying to create. They still had sex – a lot of sex – but there was more tenderness in their lovemaking now; it was warmer, less mechanical. Perhaps that was why it worked.

  Suddenly everything seemed to be working.

  Five weeks to the day after he had been shot, he was called for an initial interview. The same day Jenny’s pregnancy test proved positive.

  That was the turning point.

  He got the job. Hanser had given him a glowing reference, he was informed. Perhaps he had misjudged her. True, they had had their differences during the time she had been his boss, but when it really mattered, when she had been forced to judge his work objectively, to assess his chances of doing a good job at Lövhaga, she had been profes
sional enough to put her personal views to one side, and had spoken truthfully about his excellent leadership qualities, and what a good administrator he was.

  He had heard some spiteful talk at the station, people saying that she just wanted to get rid of him, that she had even tipped Lövhaga the wink about him, but they were just jealous. Of him.

  Of Thomas Haraldsson, governor of Lövhaga.

  He went into his office; it might not be very big, but it was his. No more workstation in an open-plan office. Haraldsson sat down in the comfortable chair behind the desk, which was still comparatively clear. He switched on the computer. His third day; he hadn’t really got to grips with the job yet. Which was perfectly natural. The only thing he had done so far was to ask for all the available material on one of the residents in the secure wing, since Riksmord had shown an interest in him. Evidently they had phoned again last night. Haraldsson placed a hand on the folder on his desk, but wondered whether he ought to ring Jenny instead. Not because he wanted anything; just to check how she was. They didn’t see each other quite so much now. Lövhaga was a good sixty kilometres from Västerås. Almost an hour by car in each direction. His working day was likely to be quite long. So far it hadn’t been a problem. Jenny was positively glowing with happiness. Right now her world was full of nothing but opportunities. The very thought of her made Haraldsson smile, and he had just decided to call her when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’ Haraldsson replaced the receiver. The door opened and a woman of about forty-five came in: Annika Norling, his PA.

  ‘You have visitors.’

  ‘What?’ Haraldsson glanced quickly at the open diary on his desk. His first meeting was pencilled in for one o’clock. Had he missed something? Or, to put it more accurately, had Annika missed something?

  ‘Riksmord,’ Annika replied. ‘They don’t have an appointment,’ she went on, as if she could read Haraldsson’s mind.

  Haraldsson swore silently to himself. He had hoped that Riksmord’s interest in Lövhaga would be restricted to telephone calls. They hadn’t treated him well during their time in Västerås. Not well at all. Quite the reverse. They had done everything in their power to exclude him from the investigation, in spite of the fact that over and over again he had proved himself to be an asset.

  ‘Who’s here?’

  Annika looked down at the post-it note in her hand. ‘Vanja Lithner and Billy Rosén.’

  At least it wasn’t Torkel Höglund. When they first met, Torkel had told Haraldsson he was to be an important part of their investigation, only to kick him out a day or so later without any kind of explanation whatsoever. Not a person to be trusted. Admittedly, Haraldsson had no desire to see Vanja or Billy either, but what could he do? He looked over at the door, where his PA was waiting. He could ask Annika to tell them he was busy, get them to come back at some other time. Later. In a few days perhaps, when he had had time to familiarise himself with the job a little more. When he would be better prepared. Could one ask one’s PA to lie? Haraldsson had never had a PA before, but assumed that it was somehow part of her job. After all, she was there to make things easier for him. Putting off a visit from Riksmord would definitely make his day easier to cope with.

  ‘Tell them I’m busy.’

  ‘With what?’

  Haraldsson looked at her with a quizzical expression. Surely there weren’t that many things a person could be busy with in their office?

  ‘With work, of course. Ask them to come back.’

  Annika gave him a look which could only be interpreted as disapproving, and closed the door. Haraldsson keyed his password into the computer, then spun his chair around and looked out of the window as he waited for his personal settings to be loaded. It was going to be another beautiful summer’s day.

  There was another knock on the door. This time he didn’t even manage a ‘Come in’ before the door opened and Vanja marched in purposefully. She stopped so suddenly when she caught sight of Haraldsson that Billy almost bumped into her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I work here now.’ Haraldsson straightened up a fraction in the comfortable office chair. ‘I’m the governor. I’ve been in the post for a few days now.’

  ‘Is it just a temporary thing?’ Vanja couldn’t get her head around it.

  ‘No, it’s my new job. It’s a permanent position.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  Billy quickly jumped in with the reason for their visit. ‘We’re here because of Edward Hinde.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  ‘And you still weren’t prepared to see us?’ Vanja again. She sat down in one of the armchairs provided for visitors, a challenging look on her face.

  ‘There’s a lot to do when you’re new in a post.’ Haraldsson waved his hands over the desk, which he quickly realised was rather too empty to make much of an impact when it came to visualising his workload. ‘But I can spare you a few minutes,’ he went on. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Has anything happened with Hinde over the last month or so?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . Unusual behaviour, any deviations from his normal routine, changes of mood. Anything outside the norm.’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. There’s nothing in his notes. I haven’t met him personally. Yet.’

  Vanja nodded, apparently satisfied with his response. Billy took over.

  ‘What opportunities does he have to communicate with the outside world?’

  Haraldsson pulled the folder on the desk towards him and opened it, thanking his lucky stars that he had brought it back from home this morning. Having all the available information on Hinde to hand the day after Riksmord had made enquiries about him was a sign of initiative.

  ‘It says here that he has access to newspapers, magazines and books in the library, as well as limited access to the internet.’

  ‘How limited?’ Billy asked quickly.

  Haraldsson didn’t know. However, he did know who to call: Victor Bäckman, security chief at Lövhaga. Victor answered immediately and said he would come straight up. The three of them waited in silence in the bare, impersonal office.

  ‘How’s the shoulder?’ Billy asked after a minute or so.

  ‘Chest,’ Haraldsson corrected him automatically. ‘It’s good. I’m not completely recovered, but it’s . . . good.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Silence once more. Haraldsson was just wondering whether he ought to offer them coffee when Victor arrived. He was a tall man in a checked shirt and chinos, with brown eyes, a crew cut, and a handlebar moustache that made Billy think of the Village People as they shook hands.

  ‘No porn, of course,’ Victor replied when Billy repeated his question about Hinde’s access to the net. ‘Very, very restricted when it comes to violence. It’s the strictest form of adult lock you can imagine. We programmed it ourselves.’

  ‘Social media?’

  ‘Nothing. Completely off limits to him. He has no way of communicating with the outside world via the computer.’

  ‘Can you check his history?’ Vanja asked.

  Victor nodded. ‘We save all web traffic for three months. Would you like a copy?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘He also has a computer in his cell, doesn’t he?’ Haraldsson chipped in, not wanting to feel totally excluded from the conversation.

  Victor nodded again. ‘But it has no internet connection, of course.’

  ‘So what does he use it for?’ Billy turned to Haraldsson, who turned to Victor.

  ‘Crosswords, Sudoku, that kind of thing. He does some writing, too. Keeps his brain active, so to speak.’

  ‘And what about phone calls, letters and so on?’ Vanja asked.

  ‘He’s not allowed phone calls, and he hardly gets any letters these days. But the ones that do arrive are all the same.’ Victor gave Billy and Vanja a meaningful look. ‘From women who can “cure” him with their
love.’

  Vanja nodded. Yet another of life’s little mysteries: the way certain women were attracted to the most disturbed and brutal men in the country.

  ‘Do you still have them?’

  ‘Copies. Hinde gets the originals. I’ll pass them on to you.’

  They thanked him for his help and Victor went off to gather up the material they were going to take with them. Haraldsson leaned forward over the desk when the door had closed behind the security chief.

  ‘May I ask why you’re so interested in Hinde?’

  Vanja ignored the question. So far they had managed to keep the fact that they were hunting a copycat killer away from the press. No one had even linked the latest three murders to the same perpetrator. Temporary staff working on the newspapers over the summer, presumably. Riksmord would prefer press interest in the investigation to remain minimal, and the fewer people who knew what they were actually dealing with, the greater the chance of maintaining that state of affairs.

  ‘We’ll need to speak to him,’ she said instead, getting to her feet.

  ‘Hinde?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  For the second time since her arrival Vanja stopped dead. She turned to face Haraldsson. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s one of three prisoners on the secure wing who are not allowed visits unless they are pre-booked and approved. Unfortunately.’ Haraldsson spread his arms wide in a gesture intended to further underline how sorry he was that he was unable to help them.

  ‘But you know who we are.’

  ‘Those are the rules. There’s nothing I can do, but Annika can give you a form so that you can apply for a visiting order. She’s my PA . . .’

  Vanja couldn’t help feeling that Haraldsson was enjoying his position of power. Perhaps that wasn’t so strange – he had been well down the pecking order the last time they met – but even if it was understandable and perhaps human, it was still extremely frustrating.