Last One Alive

by Karin Nordin

  ‘You know his work hours are unpredictable.’

  ‘Are they? Because it seems to me that he purposefully makes them that way.’

  Bengt knitted his brows together. Liam wasn’t wrong, but Bengt still had difficulty hearing other people say harsh truths about Kjeld. It was one thing for Bengt to be critical of him, but for reasons he couldn’t quite explain he always felt a tad protective of the man in the presence of others. Part of it was because of their history and part of it was something Bengt didn’t like to admit. A certain regret that maybe he’d made the wrong decision. This by no means diminished his love for Liam, which was entirely different from the love he’d had for Kjeld. But it did make him wonder if things could have been repaired if he hadn’t been so starved for a certain kind of attention. Attention that Kjeld simply wasn’t capable of giving him. Maybe anyone.

  Liam reached out and placed his hand over Bengt’s. There was a burgeoning bruise atop the skin of Liam’s knuckles he hadn’t noticed before. The colour was a deep purple and bulged against his darker skin tone.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’ Bengt knew that Liam had been working volunteer shifts at the prison hospital recently and suddenly the image of an inmate attacking him flashed across his mind.

  Liam pulled his hand back and shifted his gaze to the wine. ‘It’s nothing. I caught it in the car door.’

  He took another sip and quickly changed the conversation back to Kjeld. And while Bengt didn’t feel like he was being lied to, he did have the odd sensation that Liam wasn’t being entirely honest with him. But he shook off the feeling as a by-product of stress. Liam had no reason to be deceitful.

  Liam cleared his throat. ‘One of these days Kjeld’s going to do something that really hurts Tove. And then what? I know you, Bengt. You’ll carry that guilt for him. That’s what you always do. You never let Kjeld take responsibility for his own actions. You always spare him the consequences by taking them on yourself.’

  ‘Kjeld has a lot going on in his life. I don’t think it’s our place to judge.’

  ‘You’re too generous. You’re always waiting for him to have an epiphany. Don’t you think he would have by now? Honestly, I think us moving to London would be good for him, too.’

  There was a roundabout logic to Liam’s reasoning that Bengt couldn’t deny. Maybe moving far away would be the kick Kjeld needed to put his daughter first. But that would mean leaving everything Bengt knew behind. Including the man he couldn’t quite get out of his thoughts.

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ Bengt glanced down at his fingers. Bits of dried paint were stuck underneath his nails and stained the pads of his fingertips. He tried scratching it off, but it was too deep into the grooves of his skin. ‘But if Kjeld doesn’t agree then I’d have to take him to court for full custody.’

  And that was something Bengt hoped he’d never have to do.

  Liam reached over and placed his unbruised hand on Bengt’s forearm. He smiled. It was a charismatic smile. Charming. The kind that reached his eyes and exuded true affection. But instead of soothing his worries, it made Bengt feel like he was at fault for something. ‘One step at a time. First you have to tell him.’

  Bengt exhaled a heavy sigh and drank the rest of his wine in a single gulp.

  If only it were that easy.

  Chapter 50

  The motion detector on the outdoor camera activated, sending a message to Daniel’s phone. It buzzed on the desk and he slipped off his noise-cancelling headphones to check the alert. The camera was connected to an app that let him know if anyone was in the vicinity of his house. Normally he used it to notify him when the postman delivered packages. He enjoyed listening to loud music while he worked and if he was wearing his headphones he very rarely heard the doorbell. But lately he’d been using the cameras to make sure no one was snooping around his lawn. He didn’t have any proof that anyone was nosing around where they shouldn’t be, but there had been a rash of break-ins around the neighbourhood and he didn’t want to take any chances.

  Daniel wasn’t the sort of person who was willing to take chances. He’d always been a meticulous man. Meticulous about his business, about his contacts, about his finances. And after the events six years ago, he was meticulous about his safety.

  He turned his phone horizontally to enlarge the image file. It was a short ten-second clip from the camera above the back door to the house. He played it to the end, but couldn’t make out anything. There was too much rain.

  Maybe that’s what set it off.

  He set his phone back down on the desk and refocused his attention on the computer screen. There had been a time when he would have paid someone else to do this kind of low-level financial work. But ever since the trial he’d been essentially barred from working with any reputable, high-paying companies. All he had was the occasional private client. Most of them didn’t know who he was, which made doing business with them easier. Others did and refused to pay him his worth. That’s what happened when you fucked up. And Daniel had fucked up big time.

  But he was alive. Which was more than he could say for his old colleagues.

  His phone buzzed again. This time the alert was from the camera on the side window. Again he opened the digital file and played the ten-second clip. The front of the lens was awash in rain. It was coming down heavy, hitting the roof hard. Might have even been hail.

  ‘Stupid sensor,’ Daniel grumbled.

  His stomach grumbled with hunger and he glanced at the time on his computer. Shit, it was already late. Not that time had the same meaning anymore. He lived alone now. His wife had taken the kids and refused to call him except for his rare weekends with them. And even those were few and far between. His kids were embarrassed by him. They shared their mother’s shame. He’d destroyed the family with his greed. And everyone knew about it.

  He pushed his ergonomic chair away from the desk and stood up. He stretched his arms above his head, cracking the joints in his upper back. He needed to remember not to sit for such long periods at a time.

  Daniel made his way down the stairs to the kitchen. He opened his fridge. All he had was some leftover takeaway, a block of smooth cheese, and half a bottle of pinot grigio. He groaned and took out the takeaway. When he opened the box, however, he was met was a sour stench. Spoiled. He closed it up and tossed it in the trash. Then he grabbed the block of cheese and set it on the counter beside a loaf of bread.

  ‘Looks like you’re back to the good ol’ college meals, buddy,’ he said aloud to himself.

  He took a cheese knife from the drawer and removed the block from the package.

  Upstairs his phone vibrated.

  Daniel drew the cheese knife over the block, cutting off three thick slices. Maybe he would have that pinot, though. Shame to let it go to waste.

  He turned back towards the refrigerator. From the corner of his eye he caught the image of a dark shadow crossing in front of the window. His heart leapt into his throat.

  He scrambled into the living room just in time to see the shadow pass the next window, heading for the front door.

  It’s one of them. They’re after me again.

  He dropped the cheese knife and dashed upstairs to his office. His heart was racing and he thought he heard the sounds of someone tugging on the front door handle. His phone vibrated on his desk. He snatched it up and dialled 112.

  A young woman answered after the first ring. ‘This is the police. How can I assist you?’

  ‘This is Daniel Santelmann. You have to send someone over to my house right away! Someone’s trying to kill me.’

  Chapter 51

  Fredag | Friday

  Portside wasn’t exactly an exclusive club, but it catered to a particular clientele that was willing to splurge more on drinks than at the average city club. It was located in an unused shipping warehouse at the eastern end of the port of Gothenburg. On the outside the building was a brick and steel eyesore with a metal roof that had rusted green over years of disuse a
nd lack of upkeep. The inside, however, boasted a large open dance floor and stage, where the current DJ was yelling out to a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd of throbbing bodies against a pulsating backbeat that made it impossible for Kjeld to hear his own thoughts.

  The average age of Portside’s clubgoers appeared to range from early twenties to late forties, but the frenetic flashing of strobe lights and hip-gyrating motions of the crowd made it difficult to tell one person apart from the other. Kjeld skirted his way around the edge of the club to the chic bar, which stretched nearly the entire length of the side wall. The endless bottles on the back wall were lit up by neon lights of blue and green. The music thumped up his body through the floor, reverberating an uncomfortable trill in his chest. He craned his neck over the cluster of skimpily dressed women and men reeking of sweat and an overabundance of cologne, in search of anything that might indicate whether this was the place the killer had kidnapped Jonny.

  The bartender, a young man with a fake tan and teeth so white that they glowed translucent against the blacklight spot lamps from behind the bar, leaned over the counter. ‘What can I get you?’

  Kjeld took out his phone and held up a photograph of Jonny. ‘You ever see this guy around here?’

  The bartender’s expression faltered but was quickly replaced with a cocky smirk. ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You a cop?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  The bartender wiped a wet rag over the counter, doing very little to clean up the sticky residue from spilled drinks. Then he shrugged. ‘He’s not here tonight.’

  ‘So, you have seen him?’

  ‘Of course I’ve seen him. The little shit used to work here. I say used to, but that didn’t stop him from sneaking in after he quit and pouring himself some free drinks. I don’t care about the cover charge, mind you, but alcohol is expensive.’

  ‘What kind of work did he do?’ Kjeld raised his voice. He could barely hear himself over the music, let alone the bartender.

  The bartender nodded. ‘He worked the cages.’

  ‘Cages?’

  The bartender motioned to the dance cages, which hung in the air above the crowd. They looked like they were floating, but Kjeld could see the extensive high-tension wire connecting them to the ceiling. In each of the cages, lit up by the black light strobes from the stage and ceiling, was a shirtless man or a bikini-clad woman dancing to the beat of the music.

  ‘When did he stop working here?’ Kjeld asked.

  ‘About six months ago.’ The bartender filled two beers and set them on the counter for his colleague who was bustling to keep up with the crowd.

  That same pinch of guilt he’d experienced when he spoke to Monika Lindh behind his colleagues’ backs prickled him. Kjeld took out his phone and sent Esme a quick text informing her that Jonny used to be employed at the club. It didn’t go through. Dammit. He didn’t have a signal. Then he glanced up into the rafters, searching for any signs of security cameras. ‘Is there CCTV in this place?’

  The bartender snorted a laugh. ‘Hell no, man. I mean, this place is on the level. It’s legit, but not everything that goes on in the dark is if you catch my meaning. Besides, the owner takes his privacy very seriously. And so do many of the people he entertains.’

  The bartender motioned to a woman at the other end of the bar surrounded by a crowd of men. Kjeld recognised the woman as an actress made famous on one of those reality shows where people had to survive stark naked on a desert island. One of the men beside her looked like a city council representative, but Kjeld couldn’t be certain.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘The owner?’

  ‘The guy in the photograph.’

  ‘Oh, shit, man. I don’t know. A few nights ago?’

  ‘Was he with anyone?’

  ‘Look, are you going to buy a drink or what?’

  Kjeld reached into his pocket and took out a five-hundred kronor note, slapping it on the counter. The bartender reached for it, but Kjeld held on to it. ‘Was he with anyone?’

  The bartender hesitated again, his eyes darting to the left.

  Kjeld followed his gaze and caught a glimpse of a man in a purple tracksuit passing something in his hand to one of the clubgoers. The man smiled a toothy grin and gave the other person a half hug which almost, but not entirely, hid the action of the clubgoer slipping cash into his pocket.

  ‘Hey!’ Kjeld called out to the man.

  The man looked up, eyes wide with surprise when his gaze locked with Kjeld’s. They both froze in place. It only took a second for Kjeld to recognise him. And to see the handle of a pistol tucked in his slacks.

  Vidar Rask.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Kjeld mumbled.

  Then Vidar bolted.

  Chapter 52

  Kjeld broke into a run after Vidar, but his sprint was short-lived. The density of the people in front of the stage had increased and moving through them was like pushing against a wall. The only benefit to Kjeld’s own difficulty manoeuvring through the congestion of bodies was that it was equally difficult for Vidar, who looked to be using brute force to shove people out of his way.

  Kjeld felt like a salmon trying to swim upriver. He turned his body sidelong, trying to slip between the mob. Someone shoved him from behind. Another yelled at him. But Kjeld kept his attention glued to Vidar’s bald head as he squirrelled through the horde of dancing bodies on his way to the opposite end of the club, ignoring the thick stench of sweat and alcohol as he tried to catch up to him.

  When Vidar reached the edge of the dance floor he made a dash down a dark corridor along the side of the stage. Kjeld was a few seconds behind him. Not far, but enough for him to lose sight of him around the corner.

  Kjeld rushed after him, following the irritated complaints of young women in the toilet queue whom Vidar had bumped into in the dark, middle fingers accompanied by an endless holler of colourful profanity. At the end of the corridor a door flapped closed. Kjeld threw it open and hurried out into a large open space that composed the back of the old shipping warehouse, separated from the rest of the club by a makeshift wall covered in soundproof tiles to ensure the deafening roar of music stayed in the front of the building. The odour of liquor and bodies was gone. Instantly replaced by the smell of dust, moulding pallets, and rusted metal.

  Kjeld stepped out into the open. Above him the rain clattered against the metal roof, but the rest of the room was quiet. He waited, using the moment to catch his breath.

  The sound of running footsteps resounded from his left. He caught a glimpse of a shadow out of the corner of his eye and made a mad dash in that direction.

  ‘Vidar! Stop!’ Kjeld called out. His voice echoed through the high rafters.

  But Vidar didn’t stop. He cut across the floor in front of him, ducking behind piles of pallets as he headed towards the main loading bay at the back of the warehouse.

  ‘Vidar!’

  His shout frightened a group of pigeons huddled together on an overhead beam and they frantically flew in front of him to another crossbar, blocking his view of Vidar, who’d already leapt down to a loading ramp. Kjeld waved the pigeons away and bolted after him. His heart pounded in his chest and his breath heaved against the damp cool air of the warehouse. He jumped down the ramp, stumbled as he nearly rolled his ankle, and then picked up his pace, following him out into the night and the rain.

  But Vidar was gone.

  He glanced from side to side, searching for any trace of the man. Outside was a large expanse of open tarmac with no cars in sight. In front of him were the tall smoking towers of the city energy plant. To the right was the port, the mouth of the Göta river, black beneath the night sky.

  Where was he?

  A reverberating clang rang out. Kjeld spun on his heel. Three drunken clubgoers laughed as one of their friends stumbled into a rubbish bin, dropping his beer. They didn’t notice Kjeld in the dark and hurried through the rain towards the near
est bus stop.

  When he turned back to the warehouse he was met with the barrel of a gun in his face.

  Chapter 53

  Kjeld slowly raised his hands in front of him, palms out. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘What? Like chase a guy with a gun through a warehouse? Don’t do anything stupid like that?’ Vidar took a step closer, weapon still raised. He had a nervous sweat on his brow and his chest was heaving exhausted breaths from the chase. His eyes, already wide and protruding, had a glossy tinge to them. He was high.

  ‘I’m an unarmed police officer, Vidar. If you shoot me you’ll be in a hell of a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Only if I get caught. And I know a thing or two about not getting caught.’ Vidar turned his head to the side and spat out a glob of phlegm. Then he wiped his lips on the side of his shoulder. He waved the gun. ‘What the fuck, Kjeld? You trying to get me killed or something.’

  ‘That was never my intention.’

  Vidar groaned and dropped his arm, slipping the gun into the pocket of his tracksuit jacket. ‘You are a fucking blight on my life, man. Every time you show up shit goes to hell in a fucking handbasket. You know that?’

  Kjeld lowered his arms before nodding to Vidar’s pocket. ‘Did you put the safety back on before you stuck that thing so close to your privates?’

  Vidar furrowed his bushy caterpillar brows before checking the gun to make sure the safety was in place. It was.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing chasing me through a club full of clients? Do you know who owns this place? Do you know the shit storm I’d be in if they saw me talking to you?’

  ‘We’re just having a chat, Vidar. Nothing more.’