by Lars Kepler
“We shall,” Saga promises.
“You must understand … it’s the lack of ammunition that keeps the lid on there after the election … I mean … if it heats up again, all aid organisations will flee Darfur.”
Veronique Salman glances at her watch and tells Joona that she has to head for the airport soon. She goes to the window. The multicoloured light filtering in on her face reveals an almost dreamy expression, as if she’s shifted a heavy load.
“My boyfriend is dead,” Penelope says abruptly. She wipes her cheeks. “My sister is dead. I don’t even know how many others have died …”
Veronique Salman turns to face her again.
“Penelope, who could I turn to? I only had the photograph. I thought you, of all people, would be able to identify the people in the private box,” she explains. “You would have known the reason why Agathe al-Haji was there buying ammunition. You’ve been to Darfur, you have contacts there, and you’re a peace activist and—”
“You were wrong,” Penelope says. “I didn’t recognise Agathe al-Haji. I knew of her, of course, but I didn’t know what she looked like.”
“I couldn’t send it to the police or the newspapers. They wouldn’t understand what it meant, not without an explanation, and I couldn’t explain. How could I? One thing I did know was that I was afraid to have anything to do with it, so I sent it to you. I purged it completely. I knew I could never reveal my connection to any of this.”
“But now you have,” Joona points out.
“Yes, because I … I …”
“Why did you change your mind?”
“Because I’m leaving the country and must …”
She looks down at her hands.
“What happened?” Joona asks gently.
“Nothing,” she says, but she is holding back tears.
“You can tell us,” Joona says.
“No, it—”
“There’s no danger here,” Saga whispers.
Veronique rubs her cheeks and then looks up at Joona.
“Pontus just called from our summerhouse. He was crying and asked me to forgive him. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he told me he would do anything he could to escape reaping his nightmare.”
91
one last escape
A rowing boat of polished mahogany bobs on Malmsjö Lake. It’s floating on calm waters behind a large spit. A soft breeze blows from the east and brings the smell of manure from the farm on the other side of the water. Pontus Salman has pulled in the oars, but the boat hasn’t drifted more than ten metres during the last hour.
His rifle is lying across his lap.
The only thing he hears is the lapping of water against the hull and the slight rustle of wind through the leaves of the trees.
He closes his eyes for a moment. He breathes deeply, opens his eyes, sets the piston on the floor, and makes sure it is held by the wooden bar. His hand touches the barrel heated by the sun and then he aims the barrel at his forehead.
He feels ill at the thought of his entire head blowing off.
His hands shake so much that he has to pause. He decides to aim the barrel at his heart instead.
Swallows are flying lower over the lake as they hunt insects across the surface of the water.
It’s probably going to rain tonight, he thinks.
A white streak from an aeroplane appears in the sky. Pontus begins to think about his nightmare.
It seems to him as if the entire lake turns dark, as if black ink were spread over it.
He turns his attention back to the rifle. He puts the barrel into his mouth and feels it scrape against his teeth. He tastes metal.
He’s about to pull the trigger when he hears the sound of a car. His heart flutters in his chest. Various thoughts race through his mind in less than a second. He realises it must be his wife, since no other person knows where he’s gone.
He sets the rifle back over his knees and feels the blood pound through his veins. He notices how much he’s shaking as he tries to peer between the trees towards their summerhouse.
There’s a man walking across the dock.
It takes Pontus a moment to realise that it’s the detective who’d come to the office and showed him the photograph that Veronique had taken.
The moment he recognises the detective, a new fear rushes through him. Tell me it’s not too late, he thinks over and over again as he starts to row back to land. Tell me it’s not too late and that I don’t have to reap my nightmare. Just tell me it’s not too late.
Pontus Salman doesn’t row all the way to the dock. He’s pale and only shakes his head as Joona asks him to come closer. Salman seems to want to keep his distance, and he turns the boat so the prow is pointed back towards the lake.
Joona decides to sit on the broken, sun-bleached wooden bench at the very end of the dock. He listens to the lapping of the water and the rustling of the wind in the trees.
“What do you want from me?” asks Pontus. Terror is in his voice.
“I’ve just been talking to your wife,” Joona says.
“Talking?”
“Well, I—”
“You have talked to Veronique?” Pontus asks worriedly.
“I just need some answers.”
“There’s not enough time for that.”
“We’re not in any hurry,” Joona says, taking note of the rifle in the rowing boat.
“What do you know about anything?” mumbles Pontus, more to himself than to Joona.
The oars move softly through the water.
“I know that your wife took the photograph.”
Pontus’s face falls. He lifts the oars and water rushes over his hands.
“I can’t stop the deal,” Pontus says morosely. “I needed the money. I was in too much of a rush.”
“So you signed the contract.”
“It was watertight, even if it came to light. Everyone could swear that they’d agreed in good faith. No one would be guilty.”
“But there was a glitch in the end, right?”
“Right.”
“I thought I’d wait to put you under arrest—”
“That’s because you can’t prove it, can you?” Pontus says.
“I haven’t discussed this with the prosecutor,” Joona continues. “I’m sure that we can offer you a lighter sentence, however, if you testify against Raphael Guidi.”
“I won’t testify. I will never testify,” Pontus says, and the intensity in his voice reveals his determination. “I see that you don’t comprehend what’s really going on here. I’ve signed a rather unusual contract, and if I hadn’t been so cowardly, I’d already have killed myself, just like Palmcrona did.”
“We’ll protect you if you testify,” Joona says.
“Palmcrona escaped it,” Pontus says. “He hanged himself and now the next director has to be the one responsible for signing the order. So Palmcrona means nothing to Raphael Guidi. He was able to escape reaping his nightmare …”
Pontus’s expressionless face changes into a smile. Joona studies it while he thinks that Palmcrona did not escape his nightmare after all. His nightmare must have been the death of his son.
“A psychologist is on her way over here,” Joona says. “She’s going to do her best to convince you that suicide is not the answer. You’re telling me that the next director of the ISP will have to sign the export order, but what will happen if he refuses?”
Pontus stops rowing in circles. The rowing boat continues to drift away from the dock.
Pontus says, “He can refuse, but he won’t …”
92
discovered
Axel wakes up when the telephone on his bedside table rings. He hadn’t been able to sleep until close to dawn, and only beside Beverly’s sweating body.
Now he observes her young face and can tell that she resembles Greta: the same mouth, the same eyelashes.
Beverly is whispering something in her sleep and rolls over onto her stomach. Axel feels
the warmth of tenderness wash through him as he regards this heartbreakingly small young person.
He sits up in bed and reaches for the thin volume of Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s The Visit. There’s an unexpected knock on his bedroom door.
“Just a minute,” Axel calls at the same moment Robert rushes into the room.
“I thought you were already awake,” Axel’s brother says. “I really need your advice about this new instrument that I’ve—”
Robert sees Beverly in the bed and halts abruptly.
“Axel,” he stammers. “What’s going on?”
Beverly wakes up when she hears Robert’s voice. When she sees Robert, she hides underneath the blanket.
Axel gets out of bed and wraps himself in his robe, but Robert is already backing out of the door.
“Shame on you!” Robert’s saying softly. “Shame on you!”
“It’s not what it looks like—”
“You’ve been using her?” Robert raises his voice. “You’ve been using a mentally ill girl?”
“I can explain,” Axel tries to say.
“You son of a bitch!” Robert grabs him and tries to pull him out of the room.
Axel loses his balance and knocks the lamp to the floor. Robert is still backing up.
“Wait!” Axel says. “You’re wrong! I know what it looks like, but you’re wrong! Just ask her—”
“I’m going to take her to the police station right now!” Robert declares. “I would never have imagined that you would—”
Robert is overcome with emotion and his eyes well up.
“I’m not a paedophile,” Axel says. “You have to understand me. I only need—”
“You need to sleep with a child!” Robert says. “You’re using another human being whom you’ve promised to protect!”
By now Robert has reached the library, and Axel has followed him. Robert falls into one of the sofas and looks at his brother while trying to keep his voice steady.
“Axel, you realise, of course, that I have no choice but to take her to the police,” he says.
“I understand,” Axel says.
Robert can’t look at his brother any longer. He rubs his hand over his face and sighs.
“I might as well take her there now,” Robert says.
“I’ll go and get her.” Axel returns to the bedroom.
Beverly is sitting upright in bed and smiles at him while wiping away tears.
“Go on and get dressed,” Axel says. “You have to go with Robert.”
As Axel returns to the library, Robert stands up. They both stand while avoiding each other’s gaze.
“You should stay here,” Robert says.
“Right,” Axel whispers.
Beverly enters the library a few minutes later. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She’s not wearing makeup, so she appears even younger than she is.
93
greta’s death
Robert drives without saying anything. He stops the car at the lights and waits for them to turn green.
“I’m very sorry about what happened to you,” Robert says in a sad voice. “My brother told me that he was helping you by giving you a place to live until you got your own student apartment. I don’t really understand why he’d do such a thing. I never believed—”
“Axel is not a paedophile,” Beverly says.
“Why would you want to defend him? He doesn’t deserve it.”
“He doesn’t touch me like that. He never has.”
“What does he do, then?”
“He hugs me,” Beverly answers.
“Hugs you!” Robert exclaims. “You’ve just said—”
“He hugs me so he can sleep,” she explains in her frank, clear voice.
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s nothing ugly about what he does,” Beverly says. “At least not as far as I can tell.”
Robert sighs and says she’ll have to explain everything to the police. He wonders if he’s doing the right thing.
“It’s all about his insomnia,” Beverly explains slowly. “He can’t sleep unless he takes his pills. But he can’t take his pills anymore. But when I’m there, he calms down and he—”
“But you’re underage!” Robert says.
Beverly looks through the windscreen at the light green leaves on the trees, which flutter in the warm breeze. A few pregnant women are chatting on the pavement. An elderly woman is standing still with her face turned towards the sun.
“Why?” Robert asks. “Why can’t Axel sleep at night?”
“He says he’s always been like that.”
“I know that he wrecked his liver by taking all those pills.”
“He told me all about why he can’t sleep. It was when we were still in the hospital together,” Beverly says. “Something sad happened to him.”
Robert stops at a pedestrian crossing. A child drops his dummy in the street and his mother doesn’t notice but keeps walking. The child rips himself away from his mother and dashes back. The mother screams horribly but then notices that Robert has observed the scene and understood that the child would run back. The mother picks up her child and carries him to the pavement while he shrieks.
“He knew a girl who died,” Beverly says.
“Who was it?”
“He only told me about it once, while we were at the hospital. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Beverly twists her fingers together.
“Tell me what he told you,” Robert says. There’s tension in his voice.
“They were in love and they slept together and then the next day she killed herself.” Beverly glances at Robert. “I kind of look like her, right?”
“You do,” Robert answers.
“When he was in the hospital, he told me that he was the one who killed her,” Beverly whispers.
Robert jerks and turns to her.
“What are you talking about?”
“He said there’s something he did that made her want to kill herself.”
Robert’s mouth drops open. “He said that? He said it was his fault?”
Beverly nods.
“He said it was his fault because they were supposed to be practicing together, and instead they had sex and she thought he’d lured her into it so he could win the violin competition.”
“None of that was his fault,” Robert says.
“Of course it was. He said so.”
Robert sinks behind the wheel and rubs his face with his hands.
“Oh, good Lord,” he says. “There’s something I have to tell him.”
Robert stops the car and the car behind him honks. Beverly looks at him with worry.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
Robert starts to turn the car around.
“There’s … there’s something very important I must tell him. I was behind the stage right before Axel was going to go on and I know what really happened. Greta had already played right before he was supposed to go on because she was first on the programme and—”
“You were there?”
“Just a minute,” Robert says. “I heard everything that happened. I know that Greta’s death had nothing to do with Axel.”
Robert is so upset that he has to stop the car again. His face is pale as ash as he says to Beverly, “Please, forgive me, but I really have to—”
“Do you know that for sure?” Beverly asks.
“What?” Robert looks at her in confusion.
“Are you absolutely sure that it wasn’t Axel’s fault that Greta died?”
“Of course!”
“But what happened?”
Robert wipes a tear from his cheek. He opens the car door.
“Just a second,” he says. “I have to … I must speak to him.”
Robert gets out of the car and stands on the pavement.
The enormous linden trees on Sveavägen are shedding their seeds, which dance in the sunshine. Robert has a big smile on his face as he reaches for his mobi
le phone and punches in Axel’s number. After three rings, his smile disappears, and he starts to walk back to the car with his phone to his ear. Only when he breaks off the call and attempts to redial the number does he notice that his car is empty. Beverly is gone. He looks around but can’t see her anywhere. City traffic is picking up. Students in their cars are rushing down to Sergel’s Square.
Robert shuts the door, starts his car, and begins to drive slowly as he looks for Beverly.
94
white rustling plastic
Axel Riessen doesn’t know how long he’s been standing at the window. He’d watched Robert and Beverly drive away until they were out of sight. His thoughts had gone back into the past. He forces himself to stop remembering and walks over to his music system and puts on the first side of David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. He jacks up the volume.
Pushing through the market square …
Axel walks over to his bar and takes out one of the most expensive whisky bottles in his collection. It’s a Macallan 1939, from the first year of the Second World War. He pours himself half a glass and then goes to the sofa and sits down. He listens to the music with his eyes closed. Bowie’s young voice and the sloppy piano playing. He sniffs the aroma of oak barrels, heavy reservoirs and dark cellars, straw and citrus. He drinks and the strong alcohol burns his lips as it fills his mouth. Guarding its precious taste, this whisky has been waiting through decades: generations, changes of government, war and peace.
Now Axel is thinking that maybe what just happened is a good thing. Maybe Beverly will finally get the help she needs. He has a sudden impulse to call his brother and tell him that he loves him, but frowns at the pathetic thought. He won’t be killing himself—he’s just going to meet what’s coming to him soon enough and try to die on his feet.
He takes the whisky to his bedroom and stares at the unmade bed. He’s able to hear the sound of vibrations coming from his jacket, which is hanging over the back of a chair. Just then, he also hears the sound of footsteps behind him. He whirls around.
