Buzz: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

  Then he noticed the awning of the restaurant on the ground floor.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She tried to look in at the backseat through the tinted windows, but even though she had her hands cupped around her eyes it was all but impossible. The front seats were no problem, but sadly there was nothing interesting there. A couple of paper cups and the previous day’s evening paper, and that was all.

  The cold was making her want to pee more than ever and she made up her mind to leave.

  A moment later a body landed on the roof of the car.

  30

  HOMECOMING

  Pillars of Society forum

  Posted: 22 December, 17:26

  By: MayBey

  Sometimes I fantasize about killing someone.

  Finding some worthless little shit. A parasite on the body of society who’s just begging to be removed.

  All of you out there can decide. Should I do it?

  Thumbs up, or down?

  I already know what the answer will be.

  It would never occur to you to try to stop me.

  Could I even be stopped?

  Can you actually protect yourself against someone who might not even exist?

  This post has 107 comments

  HE DREAMED ABOUT a bird.

  A black desert crow with enormous wings that threw itself at him as he stood on the roof. He saw it coming, raised his arm to his eyes instinctively, and took a couple of steps back.

  And a moment later he fell over the edge. He fell in slow motion between the buildings, whose windows had been replaced by giant, flickering screens. Messages washed over him, filling his head. Almost making him forget the ground, which was getting closer and closer.

  . . . as a Friend of Law and Order, I have to say . . .

  Congratulations, Skövde, now we’re rolling . . .

  . . . legislation that can’t come soon . . .

  Recently it has become more and . . .

  The writer doesn’t actually realize . . .

  Hello to Vandelay Industries . . .

  What Sweden needs is a new . . .

  Suicide bomber!

  . . . ready to take responsibility . . .

  The Six O’clock News . . .

  . . . meaningless . . .

  Dressmann . . .

  You Are . . .

  Terrorist

  . . . Always . . .

  bomber!

  Playing

  voices

  buzz

  The

  And then finally, just before his brain realized what was about to happen. The moment before his dream body smashed onto the tarmac . . .

  Game

  Game

  Game

  He drifted in and out of sleep and it took him a long time to make any sense of things. The bed was familiar, as was the room he was in. Extremely familiar, and for a moment he thought he was still dreaming. But then the pain caught up with him. Okay, so you could feel pain in dreams, but this was the mother of all pains . . .

  His head, stomach, crotch, arms, legs, feet, and hands. Basically there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t hurt. So he must be awake. So—how in holy hell had he ended up here?

  The door opened slowly and a familiar face looked in.

  “Hi, Henke,” she said quietly.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Obviously she should have taken him to Accident & Emergency straightaway. But he had begged and pleaded with her not to.

  “Not the hospital, please . . . I’m screwed if I end up on a database. FUCKED, get it?”

  So she had taken him home, helped him to stagger up to her flat, and then gave him several of her strongest knockout pills before tucking him up in bed.

  His sleep had been unsettled, and he had woken several times babbling about desert birds, Dressmann, and a whole load of other incoherent nonsense.

  She really ought to be beside herself with worry. But at the same time it was so incredibly good to see him, to have him here in the flat. Safe . . .

  It was more than likely that the state Henke was in had some connection with her own disastrous evening with John. You didn’t have to be Einstein to work out that he must have been furious with her, and had in all likelihood taken out his anger on Henke.

  Of course she should never have let on that he was her little brother . . .

  Nice work, Normén!

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Things could have been better . . .

  His cover was blown, he had been tortured and chased, and had almost killed himself playing Spider-Man in Östermalm. But he couldn’t deny that it was good to see her . . .

  So, how much did he actually dare tell her?

  He had already tried the day before, but the combination of the pain and the pills had fogged his thoughts.

  But he had to make an effort now, at least. She definitely deserved that.

  She had basically saved his life.

  What astonishing luck that she just happened to be there.

  But this wasn’t the first time that he had been surprised by karma, so he just had to sit back and be grateful.

  He got up out of bed and took a couple of unsteady steps across the floor. It actually went better than he had expected.

  He opened the door and limped out toward the living room. She met him in the hall with her jacket on.

  “Hello, are you up and about?”

  “Hmm, feeling a bit better. I thought we could talk . . .”

  “I’d love to, I really would! But there’s something I’ve got to deal with first, something I should have taken care of a long time ago. It’ll only take a couple of hours, okay . . . ?”

  “Okay,” he mumbled.

  He followed her to the door like a tired dog. She picked up on his disappointment.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she said as she pulled on her woolly hat and gloves. “Make yourself at home in the meantime. You know where everything is.”

  She slipped out of the door but stopped halfway down the stairs.

  “Don’t worry, little brother. What was it you used to say . . . ? I will clean it up! ”

  “Them . . .” he muttered. “I will clean them all up . . .”

  But she had already gone.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  He was sitting in the far stand, just a few rows from the courts and with his sturdy back toward her. Two boys in their upper teens were playing a match, but she had no idea which one was winning.

  Tennis had never interested her.

  She walked slowly down the steps, then slipped into the row of seats behind him, quietly folded down one of the blue seats, and sat down. He was still completely focused on the match and didn’t seem to have noticed her.

  “Oh shit!”

  One of the teenagers missed what looked like an easy ball and she heard him swear. His voice made her heart beat a bit faster.

  Calm, now . . .

  She took a deep breath to compose herself.

  “Hello, Tobias!” she said.

  He spun around and for a moment he almost looked scared. No police officer liked being taken by surprise.

  “Becca! What the hell are you doing here?!”

  She didn’t answer.

  He looked around the seats, then glanced anxiously at the court.

  “I mean, shit, Becca . . . You can’t just show up like this. That’s my boy out there!”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “What’s so odd about two former colleagues sitting here having a chat about work? Even if it’s been a while since you left the personal protection unit, my boss is still your neighbor, and your best mate, isn’t he . . . ? BFF or whatever it is kids say these days.”

  She gestured toward the court.

  He squirmed again, as if the seat were chafing his considerable frame.

  “But, I mean, surely you can see . . . I mean, we . . .”

  “Had an affair?”

  “Y-yes . . . exactly!” He nodded, then glanced at the cour
t where one of the boys was about to serve.

  “Then we’re in complete agreement, Tobbe. We had an affair, but now it’s over, so I want you to stop driving past my flat in the van, and to stop sending texts to my cell. Got that?”

  He stared at her without replying, but his stern police glare had no effect. Instead she turned toward the tennis court where the match had resumed.

  “Looks like a good match. I ought to learn a bit more about tennis. There’s a big under-eighteens tournament at the Royal Tennis Club in a couple of weeks, isn’t there? Maybe I should look in, introduce myself to your wife, maybe call around at your house out in Näsbypark? ‘Hi, my name’s Rebecca, until fairly recently I was having an affair with your husband, but he seems to be having trouble accepting that it’s over . . .’ ”

  He clenched his jaw and narrowed his lips to a thin white line.

  “Okay.”

  “Sorry? I didn’t quite hear what you said, Tobbe . . .”

  “Okay, I get it!” he hissed.

  He glanced at the court again, then ran his hand through his short fair hair.

  “You won’t hear from me again, I swear, so just go, dammit! Jonathan’s really sensitive about this sort of thing. Jenny and I have only just managed to patch things up . . . For God’s sake, we’re having therapy as a family, Becca!”

  “Yes, you really seem to be taking that seriously . . .” she interrupted. “I’m about to go, but before I do there’s one question I want answered. I know you’ve talked to the guys in the team about me, because police are police, after all . . .”

  He was avoiding her gaze, but she went on.

  “What I want to know is if any of your colleagues in the Rapid Response Unit happen to be particularly keen on computers. Good enough to know how to set up an advanced anonymity cloak, for instance? Someone who’s also pretty articulate when it comes to writing?”

  “What?” He stared at her.

  “You heard, and don’t pretend you haven’t read the shit that’s been written about me,” she snarled. “Is anyone in your immediate circle unusually good with computers, and if so, who?”

  “Dad . . .” one of the boys called.

  They both turned to look at the court. The match seemed to be over, and one of the boys was standing just below them. The family resemblance wasn’t exactly striking. Unlike his father, Jonathan was skinny with long, greasy hair and a fair scattering of teenage acne.

  “We’re finished . . .” Jonathan said sullenly.

  “Okay, great . . . Erm . . .”

  “Wiped out, three–love. Can we go home now?”

  The boy gave Rebecca a long look.

  “Sure, no problem. Go and grab a shower, Jon, and I’ll get the car.”

  He stood up, and Rebecca followed suit.

  Jonathan drifted slowly toward the entrance to the changing room, glancing back over his shoulder a few times.

  “Well?” she said, trying to keep up with him as he climbed the steps.

  As soon as they were out of sight he stopped and appeared to think.

  “Peter,” he finally said abruptly. “Peter Gladh.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  How long had they known? One day, two? Maybe a whole week, or even longer?

  He tried to think back through all the conversations he’d had at ArgosEye, breaking down every comment into its constituent parts in the hope of finding some sort of clue. Had they actually known all along, from the very first day?

  He was fairly sure that wasn’t the case. But no matter how closely he examined the past few weeks, the only conclusion he found himself coming to was that his cover had been blown on the day of the funeral.

  Stoffe was obviously the strongest candidate. After all, he’d actually met the real Mange and had been suspicious as soon as he heard that ArgosEye had given him a job. But he couldn’t rule out other alternatives . . .

  Could Rilke have been involved, for instance?

  Had he said anything to her, had something slipped out when they were curled up watching television on her sofa?

  He didn’t think so, but on the other hand his double life in recent weeks had taken its toll on his psyche. One single slip, that was all it would have taken. A name, or some tiny detail that didn’t make sense. Rilke was more than smart enough to pick up on something like that.

  Like the fact that he had suddenly started drinking vodka in the bar, even though he was supposed to be teetotal . . .

  Maybe Rilke hadn’t liked the attention he had paid to Sophie, and got jealous the next day and told Philip? He couldn’t rule it out, unfortunately.

  But there was something else.

  He was in Becca’s flat, a place that the Game must be keeping under regular surveillance.

  As long as he was here, he was in danger.

  And so was Becca . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  When she got home she found him in front of the computer. His head was resting on his arms and he was fast asleep. She helped him back to bed and tucked him in, then sat down on the chair he had been sitting in.

  The Pillars of Society website was open.

  Nightshift.

  Whores, pimps, drunks, dealers and ordinary citizens with all their fucking rights. The full moon seems to make people even more crazy than usual. I’m sick of it. Somewhere around three o’clock it started to rain, thank God, and the rabble crawled back to their holes. One day we’re going to have some proper rain, to wash the trash off the sidewalk. One day, very soon . . .

  Do you understand what I mean?

  Do you understand, Regina?

  31

  . . . CONTROL IS BETTER

  “HELLO?”

  “Good evening, my friend, I just thought I’d call, as arranged.”

  “So how is it going?”

  “At the moment I would say that everything is in the balance. The next few days will be decisive . . .”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Things were finally starting to go her way. The union had been brought in on her case, and she had got hold of a lawyer who had already started to work on both the prosecutor and the internal investigators.

  Her affair with Tobbe was finally over, once and for all, and she also had a good idea who MayBey was. Peter Gladh, Tobbe’s deputy, and the nephew of that scrawny diplomat, Sixten, down in Sudan. His home address was on Lidingö, east of the city, just as Micke had said.

  She could have kicked herself for not checking that angle to start with. The old bastard had gone on about his nephew, saying that he knew from him how immoral the force had become . . . Now, in hindsight, it all seemed obvious, of course.

  Peter Gladh had heard stories, both from Uncle Sixten and his rejected little boss, about what a terrible person Rebecca Normén was, and had taken the chance to exploit the situation to build up a bit of interest around his posts. And it had obviously worked. The latest post from MayBey had over a hundred comments, and presumably at least a hundred times more readers. But unlike the people he had caricatured before, Peter Gladh seemed to have got hung up on her, to put it mildly.

  According to reliable sources, he was something of an odd fish. No girlfriend, spent all his time in the station, either working or training for the next TCA contest, Toughest Cop Alive—a sort of decathlon for police officers. Bench presses, obstacle course, swimming, and cross-country running. It certainly took a certain sort of mentality to do something like that. But was he “unusual” enough to hang around in a car outside her door? And almost run her down?

  She still had no answer to that question.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Now she was standing in the middle of a Christmas crowd in a shop that felt cramped and sweaty, in spite of its size.

  The day-before-Christmas-Eve desperation was all too evident in the customers dressed in their far too bulky coats. The shop assistants were racing through their work, almost as if the running tracks painted on the floor were real and not just a gimmick.

  As soon as Henke said
he needed clothes, she had hurried out into the city. She knew that sooner or later she was going to have to tell him about John, the television screen, and the consequences of her catastrophic date, but for some reason she felt like putting it off a bit longer. And Henke didn’t seem too keen to tell his own story. A short summary of his holiday in Asia was all he had offered so far. Not a word about how he had ended up naked in Östermalm, and for understandable reasons she hadn’t pressed him too hard. It would take no more than one counterquestion about why she had been there, and she would have to tell him everything. And explain that she was probably the cause of his getting tortured and coming close to killing himself.

  But she couldn’t deny that she was extremely interested to hear his story: when, where, and how he had come home, and how he came to know John, and how the hell their two worlds had so suddenly and violently collided.

  It took her an hour and a half to get everything, and when she finally squeezed into the jam-packed bus she had her hands full of shopping bags. She had to shift the whole lot into her right hand so she could hang on to the roof strap with her left.

  Well, at least Henke wouldn’t freeze.

  Five thousand kronor in total, but he could have it as a combined Christmas and birthday present.

  “Bit cramped, this,” the man beside her said in a brisk voice.

  “Yes, hot too . . .”

  She let go of the strap to loosen her clothing, but almost fell when the bus lurched unexpectedly.

  “I could hold your bags for you if you like,” the man said.

  She hesitated for a moment. Letting a stranger hold her things . . . But the bus’s heating system was going full blast and she could feel the sweat trickling down between her shoulders. They were some way from the next stop, and besides, it was so crowded that he wouldn’t get far with her bags before she caught him. And there were actually people who offered to help without having an ulterior motive . . . Where was her Christmas spirit?

  Besides, the man didn’t look like the sort who’d steal things on a bus, he looked more like a fellow officer. There was something about his frame and posture that made him seem familiar.