The silhouette of an elderly man against a snowy forest glade full of flickering lanterns.
The screen suddenly went dark. But still HP couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was still kneeling motionless in front of the computer, holding his breath and waiting. When the message finally appeared he almost pissed himself:
Time to decide, Henrik!
This is your final task.
Do you want to play a Game?
Yes
or
No?
5
Ghosts from the past
Obviously she ought to try to get hold of him. He was her brother, after all. Tell Stigsson where he could stick his damn rulebook …
But she’d actually already tried. It felt like she’d been chasing him all spring, calling, texting, even going round to the flat and knocking on the door a few times. He was still there, she was sure of that. The flat had smelled lived in, not musty the way it had during the months he’d been away.
A couple of times she had seen the flickering light of the television from out in the street, but he still hadn’t opened the door.
And at some point last winter he must have changed the locks, because her spare keys no longer worked. He was angry with her. And she knew why …
He didn’t like the fact that she was in touch with Tage Sammer. He knew perfectly well why she liked the old man, and for exactly the same reason Henke was obliged to hate him, without even giving him a chance.
Uncle Tage reminded them both of Dad …
But even if Henke was an obstinate fool, she still had to try to help him.
Do her best to save him from himself.
She looked up the number in her contacts, hesitated a couple of seconds, then pressed call.
It was a stupid idea. But she had no choice …
He answered after the first ring:
‘Personal protection unit, Runeberg!’
‘Hi Ludvig, it’s Rebecca. Sorry to call so early but I took a chance that you might be at work …’
‘Normén, hi! Quite right, there’s no time to rest up here at the moment. As you know, we’ve got our hands full. Are you calling to say you’ve changed your mind? Keen to get back to the mother ship?’
Runeberg’s voice sounded the same as usual, which made what she wanted to say somewhat easier.
‘Not quite. I’m still thinking about it,’ she lied. ‘I wanted to ask you for a favour, Ludvig … It’s a rather sensitive matter.’
‘Mmm.’
She thought she could hear his office chair creak as he rearranged his great bulk.
‘It’s about my brother …’
‘Call my mobile in ten minutes.’ The tone of his voice suddenly sounded very different.
‘W-what …?’
But he had already hung up.
For the third time in five minutes he nudged the blinds apart and peered down at the dimly lit street. Everything looked okay, but he was still certain he was being watched. One hundred percent utterly and absolutely certain …
Every movement, every website he’d visited, all his text messages. They had been watching everything, in spite of all his precautions. They were playing with him, trying to fuck with his head.
And doing a pretty good job of it …
He let go of the blinds, walked round the sofa, once, then again. Then he sat down, drumming his fingers on one knee before noticing a fingernail he hadn’t yet managed to ruin completely. The plan, in so far as he had actually had one, hadn’t envisaged this scenario.
Not by a long shot!
And he’d been trying to convince himself that they had forgotten about him …
Epic fucking fail!
He had to get out of the flat, at once, before he started climbing the walls. It was just past seven in the morning, and ordinarily it would be several hours before he tumbled out of bed. But his experience in the library seemed to have opened all the floodgates in his head. His mind was still full of fragmentary images. As if he had dreamed an entire film with a beginning, a middle and an ending, but could now only remember a few scenes. Memento sequences that he couldn’t piece together no matter how hard his aching brain tried.
The overflowing ashtray on the coffee table had just swallowed up his last fag, which gave him a legitimate reason to head down to the 7-Eleven at Mariatorget and get a bit of fresh air.
As soon as he opened the front door and stepped out into the street he could feel their eyes on him. He twisted his head round, checking every possible angle, but obviously they were far too professional to give themselves away so easily.
Even though it was still early, there were already four or five people squeezed into the shop. A gym-pumped guy with tattoos over by one of the shelves gave him a quick glance and HP froze mid-stride. He was almost certain he’d seen the man before. And his pretence of innocently browsing the pick’n’mix sweets convinced him: raspberry jellies didn’t exactly fit into a low carb, high fat diet. HP had no choice but to turn on his heel and get out of the shop at once. Really he ought to have gone straight back to the flat, but without cigs he was finished.
Instead he carried on down Hornsgatan towards the Slussen junction, trying hard to resist the temptation to drift through the morning traffic just to give his pursuers a challenge. The walk took less than five minutes, but in spite of the fact that it wasn’t even particularly warm, his t-shirt was sticking to his back and he had to sit down on one of the benches outside the underground station to catch his breath.
He was worn out, not only physically, and it wasn’t until he was fishing through his pockets for a cigarette that he remembered a lack of fags was the reason for this little outing in the first place. There was a newsagent’s just inside the doors to the station, and he glanced round a couple of times before getting to his feet and heading in that direction.
A train must have just arrived, because in the middle of the doors he was suddenly confronted with a great tide of people on their way out.
Office workers in suits and ties, early bird tourists and perfectly average Swedes on their way to work. He put his chin to his chest and elbowed his way through the crowd, ignoring the disgruntled complaints as he did so.
Out of nowhere he was shoved in the side and almost lost his balance. He looked up angrily, but faces were streaming past on all sides and it was impossible to tell who had pushed him.
Then the rush was suddenly over and he was left standing in the ticket hall. Instead of making his way to the little kiosk, he stood there while his brain tried to find the right synapse. One of the faces that had gone past had seemed familiar as well. The bodybuilder in the 7-Eleven might just have been a phantom, but this was something else. The eyes, forehead, the set of the face, it was all horribly familiar. But there was something that wasn’t right, something missing that was stopping him putting the pieces together.
It took him another few seconds before his brain finally made the right connection.
The beard!
He took a couple of hesitant steps back towards the doors, then a few more, faster now. He rushed out into the square and even leapt onto one of the benches to get a better view, his head spinning like some fucking Linda
Blair.
‘Erman!’ he yelled. ‘Ermaaaaaan!’
But all he could see were people’s backs as they hurried away from him, none of them any more familiar than all the others.
He opened his mouth to shout again, but then he noticed the looks he was getting from people around him. In spite of the bustle of the square, a small crowd of onlookers was gathering around the bench he was standing on, as if they all wanted to see what was happening but didn’t dare get too close.
A couple of teenagers were pointing at him and giggling, a dad was dragging a small child closer, and some German Stieg Larsson tourists already had their cameras out.
He caught sight of his reflection in one of the station’s glass doors. Bright red face, hair all over the place, eyes bulging like pi
ng pong balls. Add a week or so’s stubble and his shabby clothes, and it was hardly surprising that people were staring. He looked totally fucking mad!
Schwedisch Dummkopf, ja, ja – sehr gut!
Embarrassed, he got down quickly from the bench, fixed his gaze on the cobbles and did his best to blend into the crowd as he headed off towards Guldgränd.
He had been mistaken.
He must have been mistaken.
For the umpteenth time, his raging imagination had broken its reins and galloped off.
That had to be it.
‘There’s no such thing as ghosts,’ he muttered.
No
Such
Thing
As
Ghosts
‘You understand that this contravenes any number of regulations, Normén?’
She nodded.
‘Absolutely. Like I said, Ludvig, I really appreciate …’
‘Well, enough of that. You’ve got half an hour or so, then I want everything back by the time I’ve finished eating. Sunesson’s in charge of stores today, I’m sure you remember him?’
‘Transferred from Norrmalm? Sure. He worked as a duty officer for a while.’
‘Good, there won’t be any problems there, then. Just smile and wave … The corridors will be full of the lunchtime crowd, so there’ll be plenty of people about. But Sunesson’s mean, he always brings a packed lunch. Probably doesn’t want to miss the lunchtime horse-race …’
Runeberg leaned forward and carefully pushed a folded copy of Metro towards her.
‘This is all you need …’
‘And you’re quite sure it’s there?’
‘Yes, I checked the register of confiscated property after you called.’
‘Good!’
For a moment she wasn’t sure what to say. Even though it hadn’t been mentioned explicitly, she was pretty sure she knew why Runeberg was helping her. He was best mates with Tobbe Lundh, and godfather to his son, Jonathan. The same Jonathan who, together with his friend Marcus, had created the internet phantom MayBey whom they then used to torment her for months, spreading rumours and gossip about her online, and even making her think Henke was in serious danger, until she eventually worked it all out and put a stop to the whole charade.
She really only had herself to blame: she was the one who had embarked on an affair with Tobbe Lundh, even though she knew he was a married man with a family.
Either way, Runeberg seemed to feel partly responsible for what had happened.
She suddenly found herself regretting that she was exploiting his guilty conscience like this. The entire plan was actually pretty idiotic from the start … Stigsson’s instructions had been unambiguous:
For the duration of this investigation into terrorism, obviously you can have no contact whatsoever with your brother. I repeat: no contact whatsoever. Is that clear, Normén?
But she had no choice. She had to get into that safe deposit box before Stigsson’s team got there. She only needed a quick look, then, once she had assured herself that there was nothing in there that could make things even worse for Henke, she could theoretically even tip them off about the box’s existence. Give them a bit of help with the investigation. At least that was what she was trying to tell herself …
Runeberg seemed to notice her hesitation.
‘Off you go, Normén, the clock’s ticking and my food’s about to arrive …’
A waitress was approaching with a heavy tray, and Rebecca stood up before the young woman reached their table; she picked up the newspaper and put it in her shoulderbag.
‘Thanks again, Ludvig, I’m really …’
He smiled and shrugged.
‘No problem, Normén. Now, off you go.’
‘By the way,’ he added when she had started to walk off towards the door, ‘if this all goes to hell I’ll probably be looking for a new job, so you can expect to hear from me …’
A brisk three-minute walk took her to the staff entrance.
She held the card against the reader beside the turnstile, holding it upside down on purpose so no-one would see Ludvig’s photograph on the front.
The guard gave her a quick glance, then nodded in recognition.
First obstacle cleared.
She followed the glass walkway between the buildings, holding her head up and trying to look like she was having a perfectly ordinary day at work. That shouldn’t be too difficult, seeing as she had actually worked there until last winter. In theory she was still employed at the Security Police, so there wasn’t that much difference.
Yet she still felt like a stranger, someone who didn’t belong. She couldn’t help glancing at the little spherical cameras on the ceiling, and did her best to stay as far away from them as possible.
She turned off right into a yellow-painted corridor. At the far end she stopped at a broad metal door with a small white sign.
CONFISCATED GOODS DIVISION.
She held Ludvig’s card up against the reader.
A bleep, but nothing happened. Shit!
She tried again, slower this time.
Another bleep, and this time the lock began to whirr.
Calm now, Normén!
She stepped inside a small reception area. A short distance behind the counter sat an older, slightly fat man with a pudding bowl haircut. A television screen fixed to the wall was showing a horse-race, and the man pulled an irritated face when he was obliged to look away from it.
‘Hi, Sune,’ she said, with exaggerated bonhomie.
‘No, no, you stay where you are, I’ll be okay on my own,’ she went on when the man made a half-hearted attempt to stand up.
‘Just need to double-check some stuff we seized last week.’
‘Good,’ the overweight man muttered, letting his heavy frame sink back in his chair. ‘Don’t forget to sign yourself in …’
He waved his hand towards the counter as he turned his attention back to the television screen.
Rebecca pulled the register over and scrawled something illegible in place of her name.
‘Done!’
Without looking away from the screen, Sunesson raised one hand and pressed a button on top of his desk. The door to Rebecca’s right buzzed and few moments later she found herself in a large storeroom filled with racks of metal shelving.
It was several years since she had last been there, and she took a few tentative steps forward as she tried to get her bearings. The smell was exactly the same as she remembered, cool air mixed with cardboard and whitewashed concrete. A few metres away against one wall was a standard issue computer and she hurried over to it.
She took out Runeberg’s passcard and inserted it into the little box beside the keyboard. Then she quickly typed in Runeberg’s user ID and password.
The hourglass on the screen rotated and then the database opened up.
Henrik Pettersson, she typed into the search box for names, then added his date of birth in the next box.
She pressed search and the hourglass rotated once, then twice.
Rebecca looked round, but she was alone in the large room.
She could hear the sound of Sunesson’s television in the distance. The hourglass vanished and was replaced by a line of text.
Case number K3429302-12, Section 5, Row 47, shelf 23-25.
The store was actually larger than she remembered, and it took her a couple of minutes to work out where to go.
The main aisle ran along one of the outer walls, with various smaller passageways leading off into the different sections.
Section 5 was at the far end of the store, where the light was much dimmer than near the entrance.
Only every other fluorescent lamp was lit, and she guessed there would be a switch somewhere to correct that, but she didn’t have time to look for it.
The racks of shelving all round her stretched up to the ceiling, and they were almost all loaded with brown cardboard boxes that seemed to soak up the already dim light.
O
n the floor were pallets laden with things that were too big to fit on the shelves, and she walked past items of furniture, rolls of cable and part of what looked like a bronze sculpture.
Four of the boxes on shelf 23 were marked with the right case number. She pulled down the one closest to her and opened the lid.
The box was full of books and films, which explained why it was so heavy. She closed it and put it back on the shelf.
The next box turned out to contain exactly the same sort of thing, but the third looked more promising. A few files, random documents and, at the bottom – bingo!
A large bunch of keys, fifty or so, just as the case register had said.
They had got rid of almost all Dad’s belongings after his death, but Mum had been adamant about keeping the keys.
You never know when you might need a key, so we’ll keep those …
Presumably Henke had kept them for the same reason. Half of the keys were so old the metal had started to decay, others were bent and worn with use, but when she looked more closely she saw that there were at least five or six keys for bicycle locks, and a couple that looked like they belonged to mopeds or motorbikes, so – just as she had hoped – it looked like Henke had gone on adding to the collection …
So what did the key to a safe deposit box look like?
A sudden noise interrupted her thoughts. Someone had opened the door to the storeroom.
Problems?
Don’t give up, we can help you!
070-931151
The note was stuck right over the keyhole. The wording was the same as before. Probably the same note, which suggested his neighbour had worked out where it came from. But right now he really didn’t care.
His brain was working in top gear. He had wandered round half of Södermalm trying to digest what he had seen.
If what he had seen at Slussen wasn’t just his imagination, if Erman had been real, then wasn’t everything he had experienced over the past two years … well, what?
Fucking hell!
His headache from earlier that morning kicked into overdrive and made him pinch the bridge of his nose in reflex. He tore down the note and pulled the keys to the flat from his pocket.
The Game Trilogy Page 70
