The Disciple

by Michael Hjorth

  Billy straightened up in his seat. ‘By me,’ he said sharply. ‘Are you scared I’ll turn out to be better than you, or what?’

  This time she didn’t bother to suppress it; she let out a short, harsh laugh. ‘Oh yes. Absolutely. Got it in one.’

  Her gaze was still fixed on the road. Billy thought he detected a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth, but he wasn’t sure. There was, however, no doubt about the irony in her response.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ This time he didn’t try to hide his annoyance. Why should he? He was furious.

  ‘By what?’

  ‘By that tone of voice and “Oh yes. Absolutely. Got it in one”.’

  Vanja didn’t answer immediately. There were a number of options. She could keep quiet, ignore his question. She could brush him off, apologise if she had sounded unkind, say that hadn’t been her intention.

  Or she could tell the truth.

  ‘I meant that I’m not scared you’ll turn out to be better than me.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because that will never happen.’

  Billy leaned back in his seat. He could have carried on asking “why?” and “why not?” for a while longer, but what would be the point? Vanja had made it perfectly clear what she thought of him as a police officer. There was nothing more to be said. Vanja was obviously of the same opinion.

  They drove on in silence.

  As he pulled out onto the motorway and put his foot down, Haraldsson realised he was going to be seriously late for work. Although it didn’t really matter. He didn’t have to clock in, after all. He was the boss. It was July. He could use a bit of flexi-time. In advance, so to speak.

  The alarm clock had gone off at the usual time, but Jenny had rolled sleepily over to his side of the bed and snuggled in under the covers. Tucked her head in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, wrapped her arm around him. Her pregnancy wasn’t showing much, but Haraldsson thought he could feel the slight roundness of her stomach against his body. There was a life inside her. Their child. Half him, half her. Though he hoped the child would be more like Jenny: 70/30, perhaps. She was so beautiful. In every way. Warm, thoughtful, wise, funny. She was everything that was good. Sometimes he just couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have her. He loved her so much.

  He had told her that. This morning. She had responded by hugging him even more tightly. One thing had led to another. They had made love. Afterwards he said it again.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for tomorrow.’

  ‘Shh . . .’ She had put her finger to his lips. ‘Don’t say any more. I don’t want to know.’

  Tomorrow would be their fifth wedding anniversary. He had the whole day planned. First of all he would give her breakfast in bed: tea, toast with raspberry jam and cheese, scrambled eggs and crispy bacon, melon with strawberries dipped in chocolate. He would be late for work tomorrow as well, he realised. Later in the day, when Jenny was at work, she would be picked up by car and taken to a luxury spa for a range of treatments. At the same time some men were coming round to plant an apple tree in the garden. An Ingrid Marie. Jenny liked apples that were slightly sharp, and at the nursery they had said an Ingrid Marie would be perfect. And it was a pretty name, too. If they had a daughter, they could call her Ingrid Marie. Ingrid Marie Haraldsson. He was really excited about tomorrow.

  Five years.

  Wood.

  And she was getting a tree. A tree from which they could pick apples in the years to come. It would blossom every spring, and every autumn they could rake up the leaves together before the first snow. Ingrid Marie and her brothers and sisters would be able to climb it. Being careful, of course. In his mind’s eye Haraldsson could see himself and Jenny sitting in the shade of the apple tree when they were older. Old. The children and grandchildren visiting. Taking bags of fruit home with them to make jam and juice. Unless of course they had already taken cuttings from the tree to plant in their own gardens. This was a gift that would bring them both benefits and joy for the rest of their lives together. A gift of love. Jenny would be thrilled.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. In the evening a chef was coming round. He would serve them a three-course menu with wine, and then clear up the kitchen afterwards. All Jenny and Haraldsson had to do was relax. Think about each other.

  Nothing could go wrong.

  His mobile rang. Abba. ‘Ring Ring’. He glanced at the display before he answered. Work. What now?

  ‘Haraldsson.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Annika. His PA. He made a mental note to have a little chat with her. Something appeared to have gone slightly wrong with their relationship. He thought he had been encouraging, praising her initiative. That business of fetching his coffee from the dining room, for example. He had made a point of mentioning it and suggesting that she might like to carry on doing that.

  ‘I’m on my way. Did you want something?’

  ‘You have the monthly meeting with the psychologists.’

  Shit, he’d forgotten that. The governor and the medical staff had a meeting on the last Wednesday of every month. Haraldsson had intended to postpone it, which was why he hadn’t put it in his diary. He wanted to be a bit more familiar with things before they met for the first time, but he hadn’t quite got around to moving the meeting. Now it was too late presumably.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Here. In twenty minutes.’

  Haraldsson glanced at his watch. He wouldn’t be there for at least half an hour.

  ‘In that case I’ll be there in plenty of time,’ he said, ending the call. Annika would tell everyone he was on his way and that he would be on time. He had half an hour to come up with a reason for his late arrival. Something to do with the traffic, that was probably the easiest. Road works, perhaps. One lane closed. Long queues. He would apologise, but of course it was impossible to plan for these things. Nobody would bother to check. He turned up the radio and put his foot down.

  Billy and Vanja were sitting in the canteen at the bus depot waiting for Mahmoud Kazemi, who had been driving the bus in question the previous day. The woman they had spoken to on reception had told them he would be back in less than ten minutes, and that he then had a fifteen-minute break. Billy had asked what happened if they needed to speak to him for longer than fifteen minutes, and had been informed that they would need to travel with him on the bus if that were the case. The bus couldn’t be late, and there was no possibility of arranging a swap or a substitute driver at this stage. Billy decided the interview wouldn’t take longer than quarter of an hour. He had no idea what Vanja thought. They hadn’t spoken since their conversation in the car.

  The woman on reception showed them into the canteen. A functional space. Not all that shabby, not all that new. Sit down, have a break, eat. Nothing to tempt the employees to a longer break than necessary. A mixture of sweat and the smell of fried food in the air.

  Billy sat down at one of the tables as Vanja went over to the coffee machine.

  ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Vanja shrugged and waited with her back to him as the machine filled a paper cup. Then she came and sat down next to him, presumably because it would look very odd if they were sitting at separate tables when Mahmoud arrived. She drank her coffee in silence, and Billy said nothing.

  A man in his forties appeared in the doorway. Height perhaps a hundred and eighty-five centimetres. Dark hair, moustache, brown eyes looking at them rather nervously.

  ‘They said you wanted to speak to me.’ Mahmoud jerked his thumb in a vague backward movement to indicate who ‘they’ were. Vanja guessed he meant the woman on reception.

  ‘Mahmoud Kazemi?’ Vanja said, getting to her feet. Billy followed suit.

  ‘Yes. What’s this about?’

  ‘Vanja Lithner and Billy Rosén; we’re from Riksmord.’ Both of them showed their ID; Mahmoud glanced at the cards
without interest. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about your shift yesterday.’

  The man nodded and the three of them sat down. Vanja pushed a photograph of Roland Johansson across the table to Mahmoud. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  Mahmoud picked up the photograph and looked at it carefully. ‘Maybe . . .’

  Vanja felt a stab of impatience. Roland Johansson looked like a member of some Hells Angels chapter, with half his face sliced open. If you’d met him, you’d remember him. How could Kazemi be in any doubt? He might not be sure about the time, but he must know whether or not he’d seen him.

  ‘He might have got on your bus yesterday,’ Billy said helpfully. ‘Out at Lövsta.’

  ‘Lövsta . . .’

  ‘Between Stentorp and Mariedal.’

  Mahmoud looked up from the photograph and gazed at Billy with a slightly weary expression. ‘I know where it is. I drive the bus there.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The room fell silent. Vanja took a sip of her coffee.

  Mahmoud Kazemi studied the picture for a little longer, then put it down on the table and nodded firmly. ‘He did get on. I remember, because he smelled.’

  ‘Smelled of what?’ Vanja wanted to know.

  ‘Smoke. As if he’d been burning something.’

  Vanja nodded encouragingly as she wondered whether certain people had a better memory for smells than for something they’d seen. She couldn’t believe the bus driver hadn’t recognised Roland Johansson as soon as he saw the picture. ‘Do you remember where he got off?’

  ‘Brunna.’

  ‘Have you seen him out in Lövsta before?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No, but I think I would have remembered him. With that big scar.’

  Vanja chose not to comment; they had got what they came for.

  Vanja and Billy thanked Mahmoud for his help, and gave him their phone number in case he thought of anything else. They left the bus depot and walked back to the car without speaking.

  Mahmoud had led them to Brunna. They had a time, they had a place. With a bit of luck these new leads wouldn’t end there. They would go back to the station and carry on.

  Another car journey.

  The same deafening silence.

  Sebastian couldn’t decide which feeling was the strongest.

  A full stomach, tiredness, or impotent rage.

  After Vanja, Billy and Ursula had left he had spent the better part of an hour wandering around the offices. Drunk far too much coffee. Tried to summon up the energy to do what he had said he was going to do.

  Make those calls.

  Eventually he hadn’t been able to put it off any longer. He went into the Room. Closed the door. He would be left in peace there; it was only the Riksmord team who used it. The team he was still a part of. Time to prove it. Do something. Do what he could.

  He had started by sitting down with a pen and paper and racking his brains. Where should he begin? He couldn’t possibly go back ten or twenty years. He didn’t remember them. That was just the way it was. He didn’t remember their names, what they looked like, where they lived, who they were. The fact that the murderer had gone for Annette Willén didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to be sure that Riksmord had made the connection with Sebastian. It could just as easily be that Hinde, who Sebastian was convinced somehow lay behind all this, was simply unable to find any more women from his past, and had therefore been forced to take someone more recent.

  So he focused on that angle himself.

  There were still plenty.

  And it was still difficult.

  After another hour he had six names written on his pad. Six women he had slept with since he got back from Västerås at the end of April. In Stockholm, or at least not too far away. Six whose names he actually remembered. Or five. He had a Christian name and a vague idea of which part of the city one of them lived in, but only the part of the city when it came to a seventh. With the help of the computer he managed to find their phone numbers – something he never asked for when they met. If they wanted to give it to him he would take it, but threw the piece of paper away immediately.

  He pulled the pad towards him and took a deep breath. Then he came up with a reason to put off the difficult conversations for a little while longer. Trolle. He still hadn’t got hold of Trolle. He tried his number. No reply. Left his fifth or sixth message. Picked up the pad again and made a start.

  It turned out to be an object lesson in futility. One of the women who answered insisted he had the wrong number. They had never met, she said. Two refused to speak to him when he explained who he was. Simply slammed the phone down, didn’t pick up when he rang again. One listened, but when it came to explaining the situation, telling her what had happened, Sebastian’s courage failed him. He couldn’t be the one to tell them their lives were in danger. Not over the telephone. So he ended up issuing a vague warning about being careful. Not letting in any strangers. He must have sounded completely incoherent and slightly crazy. Towards the end the woman had asked what he actually wanted. He had put the phone down and didn’t even attempt to call the last name on the list.

  He couldn’t do it over the phone.

  He just couldn’t.

  But he couldn’t go and see them in person either.

  There was nothing he could do.

  What contribution had he made? Vanja had asked. The answer was simple and depressing. None. He had to see Hinde again. That was where the solution lay. That was where he would find something he could work with, something he could understand. He had to see Hinde.

  He leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs out under the table. Closed his eyes.

  He was tired. He hadn’t been able to settle last night after all that business with Anna. He had toyed with the idea of going back and keeping Trolle company, but had decided against it. He had gone to bed and gazed idly at the television until he fell asleep at around half past two.

  The dream had woken him before five. His right hand tightly clenched. His nails had pierced the skin in two places, and blood was seeping out. He straightened his fingers and felt the cramp slowly ease. He lay there for a while, wondering whether to invite the dream back in. He did that sometimes. Allowed it to regain a foothold. Enjoyed every second of the unadulterated feeling of love which it encompassed and conveyed, in spite of everything.

  Sometimes he needed it.

  Needed to feel Sabine. Close by. Her little hand in his. Remember her smell. The way she ran towards the water on her eager little legs. Hear her voice.

  ‘Daddy, I want one of those too.’ Her last words to him when she saw another little girl playing with an inflatable dolphin.

  He needed to feel the weight of her as he carried her. Her soft hands against his sun-warmed, stubbly cheeks. Hear her laughter when he almost stumbled.

  Until the noise came.

  The roar.

  The wave. That would take her away from him. Forever.

  The door of the Room opened and Vanja, Billy and Torkel walked in. Sebastian gave a start and almost slid off his chair.

  ‘Were you asleep?’ Torkel asked without a hint of a smile as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

  ‘I was trying,’ Sebastian replied, sitting up straight. He looked at the clock. Quarter of an hour had disappeared. He still didn’t feel too good.

  ‘What have you been doing to wear yourself out?’ Somehow Vanja managed to include the answer ‘nothing, as usual’ in her question, so Sebastian didn’t bother to reply.

  ‘Where’s Ursula?’ he asked instead. He assumed they were about to have some kind of meeting.

  ‘Still at the gravel pit, I presume,’ Torkel said. ‘I haven’t heard from her.’

  He turned to Billy and Vanja, who were sitting on the other side of the table in silence. They looked at one another, but neither seemed particularly keen to speak.

  ‘You do it,’ Billy said curtly, leaning back in
his chair. It was almost as if he was making a point.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s probably for the best.’

  Sebastian watched the pair with growing interest. Those two hadn’t just been out working this morning, that much was clear. Something else had happened. In spite of the brief exchange, it was impossible not to notice the chilly atmosphere between them. Interesting.

  Vanja shrugged and quickly ran through what had happened since they left the station. The car at the gravel pit, the witness, Roland Johansson, the bus driver, Brunna.

  ‘We checked Brunna.’ Billy took over without being asked. ‘There’s no Roland Johansson living there, and no one who has their post redirected there.’

  ‘But a car was reported stolen from there yesterday.’ Vanja again. ‘A silver Toyota Auris. The time fits.’

  ‘That’s the one!’ Sebastian burst out. Slightly too loud and slightly too enthusiastically, he realised as everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘How do you know?’ Vanja put into words what all three of them were thinking; Sebastian could see that.

  He swore to himself. He knew because Trolle had told him that the person who was following him was driving a silver Japanese car. He knew because Trolle had seen it outside Anna Eriksson’s apartment block. But what he knew and what he could tell them were two completely different things. He couldn’t say anything about Trolle and Anna. Nor was there any way he could reasonably know that the Toyota was linked to their investigation.

  The others were still staring at him, waiting for an answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sebastian said quietly. He cleared his throat. His voice mustn’t let him down if he was going to get out of this one.

  ‘I don’t know, obviously,’ he repeated. ‘It was just . . . a feeling.’

  ‘A feeling? Since when did you pay any attention to feelings?’

  Torkel’s question was justified. He knew Sebastian better than anyone in the Room. He might come up with theories and hypotheses, some of them incorrect as it would later transpire, but they were always based on a solid foundation of facts. Possible, credible. Through all the years Torkel had worked with him, Sebastian had never offered an assumption based on a feeling.