Not that Torkel would ever do it. Not after Västerås. But it would be logical. They would understand why he was sitting here with his cup of coffee, staring over at the concrete-grey building. It would be considerably more difficult to explain his presence if Vanja spotted him on the hill outside her apartment.
The big hand on the plastic clock had moved half a circuit, and was now showing five twenty-five. There were no other customers left in the café; the young couple who seemed to have relationship problems had disappeared without Sebastian noticing, and the older lady who he suspected was probably the owner had removed the ready-made sandwiches from the chilled counter. Sebastian looked out of the window again. At the concrete-grey facade. Failed to find what he was looking for. Suspected it might be time to make a move. The question was what to do now? He didn’t want to go back to his apartment and the debris of his other life, and he didn’t know if he had the nerve to go back to the familiar spot outside her building. It was too dangerous. From a statistical point of view, the danger of discovery increased each time he went there. But he had to do something. Something to ease the impatience and the irritation. He had no intention of seeing the woman from yesterday again, otherwise she would have been the simplest alternative. Ellinor Bergkvist. There was something about the way she had tried to keep him there in the morning, constantly wanting to know more and more, that had annoyed him. That and the fact that she had held his hand. There were limits when it came to intimacy.
Sebastian took out his frustration on the woman on the till.
‘The coffee’s crap,’ he said, staring at her.
‘I can make a fresh pot,’ she suggested.
‘Go to hell,’ he said, and stormed out.
That was probably the end of his stint as a regular customer, he thought as he walked out into the warm summer’s evening. But he could always find somewhere else.
If there was one thing there was no shortage of in Stockholm, it was cafés.
And women.
After a few brief but failed attempts in hotel bars, trying to find someone with whom to finish off a bad day, Sebastian was on the verge of giving up. By this time even the Royal Library was closed. The ostentatious building in Humlegården was one of his favourite places when it came to fishing for female company. His technique was simple. Find a central seat in the big reading room. Borrow some books; it was important to take along a few copies of his own work and to make sure they were clearly visible. Then he would sit down and begin to struggle with a new text, battling to find the right words, and at the appropriate moment he would turn to a woman who happened to be passing: ‘Excuse me, but I’m working on a new book, and I wondered if you might just have a look at this sentence.’ If he played his cards right, they were soon partaking of a glass of wine in the Hotel Anglais next door.
Sebastian was beginning to get annoyed with himself as he ambled aimlessly through the heat of the city; nothing he did seemed to work these days. He was getting crosser with every step. Positively furious.
Why the fuck did everything have to be this way?
Why the fuck did nothing ever turn out the way he wanted?
He ought to hit back at everything and everyone. Ring Trolle and ask him to dig as deep as he could. Drill right down into the lives of those perfect people until he finally reached the shit. Anna Eriksson and Valdemar Lithner were to blame for all of it. He ought to check out Anna too. Perhaps she was the weak link, the fissure that could make their perfect middle-class facade crack open. Surely he would be able to find some dirt on her. She wasn’t exactly a stranger to secrets and lies. Vanja didn’t even know the truth about her own father. No doubt Anna justified this to herself by claiming it was in Vanja’s best interests. But who had given her the right to decide? Who said she could play God? He wanted to be close to his daughter, but right now that seemed to mean at least a couple of hundred metres away. As if he’d been issued with some kind of restraining order. He stopped. He would ask Trolle to widen the search. Take a look at Anna Eriksson. Sebastian took out his mobile, then put it away again. Why call? He turned around and headed for the nearest taxi rank. After all, he had nothing better to do. Trolle lived in Skärholmen.
Trolle was a person you could trust.
He would understand.
He had lost his own family.
Billy was sitting on the sofa with his iPad, surfing the net. Maya was in the shower. Billy was hoping they could go out and eat when she’d finished.
They had been together since midsummer. An old school friend of Billy’s had a place on Djurö out in the archipelago, and it was the third year Billy had been invited to celebrate with them. This year another friend was there, along with his sister. Maya Reding-Hedberg. They ended up sitting next to one another at the traditional pickled herring lunch, and they stayed there all evening and most of the night. They had been together ever since, and saw each other nearly every day.
In spite of this he hadn’t said anything about Maya on the way home from Forskarbacken when Vanja tried to pump him for details. He usually told Vanja everything. Or most things. Sometimes he felt as if they were more like brother and sister than colleagues, but this time he held back, for the simple reason that he was fairly sure Vanja wouldn’t like Maya.
She was a life coach.
Vanja had many good points, but she was such a high achiever that she found it difficult to cope with people who didn’t make the most of their lives. On their own. It was one thing to improve your education, to go on courses, attend lectures, set goals, but she regarded it as a sign of inherent weakness and spinelessness if someone needed help to find their motivation and achieve results. If you didn’t know what you wanted, then you didn’t want it enough – that was her mantra. If you had real problems you went to a qualified psychologist, not some half-baked New Age character with a diploma who provided encouragement at a thousand kronor an hour.
No, Vanja wouldn’t like Maya.
Not that he needed Vanja’s approval, but it was simpler if she didn’t know anything. That meant he could avoid the gibes, the ironic little comments. This was particularly important now, when he had actually started making a serious attempt to change his situation within the team.
It had begun with Maya asking him if he was happy in his work. A simple question, a simple answer. Yes, he was. He couldn’t imagine a better place to work or better colleagues. As time went by, they had talked more. She was interested in what he did, what his role was. A lot of people just wanted to hear the gory details of an exciting murder enquiry, but Maya wasn’t like that. No, she was interested in the job itself. In him. That was something he liked about her, the fact that she could make him talk. So he started to tell her about his work. About what he did each day. He kept it practical and concrete. Afterwards she had looked at him with a slight furrow in her brow.
‘It sounds to me as if you’re more of an IT technician than a detective.’
That had hit home. He became more conscious of the tasks he was given. Checking police records. Downloads. Searches.
The more he became aware of it, the more he realised that his role within the investigations was increasingly that of a kind of advanced secretary rather than an investigative police officer. He talked to Maya about it, and she suggested that he should take some time to think about where he was going. And have the courage to listen to the answer. The answer was that he didn’t know. He’d never even thought about it.
He went to work.
He enjoyed it.
He went home.
He was able to make use of his ability to create structure by building timelines, and by gathering and collating information from every imaginable source, but was he using his full potential? No, he couldn’t say that he was. It was difficult to assert himself within the team. Torkel Höglund was one of the most highly qualified police officers in Sweden, and both Vanja and Ursula were in the top three – if not number one – in their respective fields. But he didn’t need to reach t
hat level. He hadn’t said so to Maya, but if he were to be perfectly honest he didn’t really think he had what it took; however, he could certainly become a more equal member of the team. He had already started working on it.
Maya emerged from the bathroom wearing his dressing gown, with a towel wound around her hair. She sat down beside him on the sofa.
‘Have you decided what we’re going to do?’ she asked, giving him a kiss and nestling into his shoulder.
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Me too. Then there’s a concert in Vitaberg Park tonight. Eight o’clock.’
Vitaberg Park. Concert. Summer’s evening. Some folksy troubadour, if he wasn’t very much mistaken. Very nice if you were over seventy-five. Billy decided to pretend he hadn’t heard her.
‘We could go and see a film,’ he suggested instead.
‘It’s summer.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘It’s nicer to be outdoors.’
‘It’s cooler indoors.’
For a second Maya seemed to be weighing cooler against nicer; eventually she nodded. ‘Okay, but in that case I want to choose the film.’
‘You choose such boring films.’
‘I choose good films.’
‘You choose films that get good reviews. It’s not the same thing.’
She raised her head and looked at him. He had given in last week when Cinematek started its summer season of French new wave films. So this time it had better be spaceships or robots or whatever it was he wanted to see.
She shrugged. ‘Okay, you can choose the film, but in that case I’m picking the restaurant.’
‘Deal.’
‘Go on then, book the ticket with your new little toy.’ She tapped the iPad on his knee.
‘It’s not new and it’s not a toy.’
‘If you say so . . .’
She got up, bent down and kissed him on the mouth before going into his bedroom to get dressed. Billy watched her go with a smile on his face.
She was good for him.
That would do for today.
Thomas Haraldsson switched off the computer. A while ago one of the electricity companies had run an advertising campaign claiming that if everyone switched off their electrical appliances instead of merely leaving them on standby, it would be possible to heat the three largest cities in Sweden with the energy saved. Or maybe it was to do with providing lighting. And it might have been three houses. Three houses in the three largest cities, maybe that was it. No, that sounded a bit complicated. He couldn’t really remember, to tell the truth, but anyway it would save electricity, save resources. That was important; the earth’s resources were not inexhaustible. He had a child on the way. There had to be something left for him. Or her. So he switched off the computer.
He got up, pushed in his chair and was just getting ready to leave when he noticed the file on Edward Hinde, which was still lying on his desk. He stopped. Riksmord were interested, and they would be back. It wouldn’t do any harm to read up on Hinde, but he probably wouldn’t have time tonight. He glanced at the clock. Jenny would have dinner ready at eight. Rigatoni with minced lamb. Some celebrity chef had cooked it on TV, and it had been a regular feature at home ever since. The first time Jenny made it Haraldsson had said he liked it, and he didn’t have the heart to tell the truth now. Jenny had done the necessary shopping after work, but after she got home she had developed a craving for liquorice ice cream, and had asked Haraldsson to call in at Statoil on the way home. Perhaps he would rent a DVD; they would have time to watch a film before it got too late. But in that case he definitely wouldn’t have time to read up on Hinde.
Decisions, decisions.
He looked at the clock again. Forty-five minutes to get home. Fifty-five if he stopped to pick up the ice cream and a film. That gave him half an hour before he needed to set off. It certainly wouldn’t do any harm to have some personal knowledge of Hinde by the next time Riksmord turned up. Reports and psychological assessments were all very well, but after all he did know quite a lot about criminals, and would be able to make a valid contribution. Perhaps he could get Hinde to reveal something in a confidential, private conversation that he wouldn’t be prepared to give away in a standard interview with Riksmord. After all, Haraldsson wouldn’t be there as a police officer, but more as a fellow human being. After one more glance at the clock he decided to make a quick unscheduled visit to the secure wing.
Edward Hinde had been surprised when the guards came to fetch him from his cell just before half past six. As a general rule nothing happened after six, when dinner was served. He had twenty minutes to eat, then the tray was collected, and after that he was alone until the wake-up call at six thirty the following morning. Twelve hours with his books and his thoughts. Every day. Weekdays and weekends. Uneventful hours which over the years had become half his life.
To be fair, not much happened during the other half of the day either. After breakfast he was allowed twenty minutes in the washroom, then an hour in the exercise yard. Alone. Back to his cell for lunch, followed by an hour in the library, then another hour in the yard. This second hour was optional, and if he preferred to do so, he could stay in the library. He usually chose to stay. The washroom again, then back to his cell to wait for dinner.
Every other week he had an appointment with a psychologist. An hour each time. Edward had met many over the years, and the one thing they all had in common was that they bored him. At the beginning of his stay in Lövhaga he had said what they wanted to hear, but now he didn’t even bother doing that. None of them really seemed to care anyway. Fourteen years without any discernible progress dampened the enthusiasm of the most persistent soul. The latest incarnation didn’t even appear to have read his predecessor’s notes. And yet the visits continued. He must not only be punished. He must be rehabilitated.
Become a better person.
Routines and pointless activities. These made up his days. His life. With few deviations. But this evening something had happened. He was collected from his cell by two guards and taken to one of the visiting rooms. It was a long time since he had been there. How many years? Three? Four? More? He couldn’t remember. At any rate, the room looked exactly the same as it had done then. Bare walls. A fine-meshed grille covering windows made of shatter-proof glass. Two chairs on either side of a table that was fixed to the floor. Two metal loops screwed to the surface of the table. The guards sat him down on one of the uncomfortable chairs, then attached his hands to the metal loops with handcuffs. Then they left the room, leaving Edward sitting there. He would soon find out who wanted to talk to him, so there was no point in speculating. Instead he tried to think of who he had met the last time he was shackled to this particular table.
He hadn’t come up with the answer by the time he heard the door open and someone walk in. Edward resisted the impulse to turn around. He sat there motionless, staring straight ahead. There was no reason to give the guest the impression that he was eagerly awaited. The footsteps behind him fell silent. The person who had come in had stopped and was looking at him, presumably. Edward knew what the visitor could see. A skinny little man, no more than a hundred and seventy centimetres tall. Thin hair to just below his collar, too thin to be as long as it was, at least if you had any interest in wanting to look good. He was wearing the same clothes as all the inmates on the secure wing: soft cotton trousers and a plain, long-sleeved cotton sweater. When the visitor moved around the table he would see watery blue eyes behind rimless spectacles. Pale, slightly sunken cheeks with a few days’ stubble. A man who looked older than his fifty-five years.
The man who had come in was moving again. Edward was sure it was a man. The footsteps and the lack of any kind of perfume were strong indicators. He was proved right when a small, very ordinary man sat down opposite him.
‘Good evening. My name is Thomas Haraldsson, and I am the new governor here.’
Edward’s gaze travelled slowly down from the window to the man opposite
, and he looked him in the eye for the first time.
‘Edward Hinde. Pleased to meet you. You’re my third.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Governor. You’re my third.’
‘Right . . .’
The bare room fell silent. The only sound was the faint hum of the air-conditioning system. Nothing from the corridor, nothing from outside. Edward kept his eyes fixed on the new governor, convinced that he wouldn’t have to be the one to break the silence.
‘I just thought I’d drop by and say hello,’ Haraldsson said with a nervous smile.
Hinde smiled back politely. ‘That was nice of you.’
Silence once more. Haraldsson shuffled on his chair. Edward sat motionless and stared at his visitor. No one ever just dropped by to say hello. The man opposite him wanted something. Hinde didn’t know what it was yet, but if he sat still and didn’t speak, he would soon find out.
‘Are you happy here?’ Haraldsson asked, in a tone of voice which might have been appropriate if Hinde had just left home and moved into his first apartment. Edward had to suppress a laugh. He looked at the patently insecure man in front of him. The first governor had been a hard bastard, two years from retirement when Hinde arrived. He made it perfectly clear to Edward from the start that he had no intention of putting up with any nonsense. By nonsense he meant anything that didn’t involve Hinde going exactly where he was told to go, speaking when he was permitted to speak, and giving up any attempt at independent thought. Hinde had spent a great deal of time in solitary confinement. He had barely glimpsed the second governor, who had stayed for twelve years. They had never spoken, as far as he could recall. But this one, this Thomas Haraldsson, could well be worth getting to know better. He unleashed a disarming smile.
The Disciple Page 8