The Disciple

by Michael Hjorth

  Hinde picked up his black electric shaver. It was one of the few things he still disliked a great deal. He wanted to have a proper shave, but any kind of razor was out of the question in the secure unit. He longed for the day when he would feel the honed blade against his skin again. That would be freedom. Holding something sharp. That was probably what he longed for most. The metal blade in his hand.

  He switched on the shaver.

  In the mirror he watched as the staff turned off the wall-mounted TV and nodded to the three men sitting on the sofas in the common room to indicate that it was time. The same three as usual. They got up without making a fuss and headed off down the long corridor towards their cells. Behind them lay the only way in or out of the unit; he heard the click of the lock as the cleaner arrived. Same time as always. The inmates cleaned their own cells, but the communal areas had been contracted out. LS Cleaning. A long time ago the inmates had been expected to clean these areas as well, but that had stopped ten years ago after a violent dispute over who was actually supposed to be doing what. Two prisoners had been seriously hurt. Since then the work had been undertaken by a cleaning firm, but always after lock-up. The cleaner, a tall, thin man in his thirties, was pushing a big metal trolley containing all his equipment; he nodded to the guards as he wheeled it along the corridor. They greeted him cheerfully; they knew him. He had been cleaning there for some years now.

  The cleaner pushed his trolley into the washroom, where he usually made a start. He stood a respectable distance away, waiting for Edward and the new inmate to leave. Everything according to the routine. All inmates must be in their cells with the doors locked before the cleaning could begin. The guards arrived a minute or so later. They looked at the men in the washroom.

  ‘Come along, you two, it’s time now.’

  ‘It’s only six fifty-eight.’ Hinde calmly ran his hand over his newly shaved chin. He knew exactly what time it was. He still didn’t condescend to glance at the guards.

  ‘How do you know that? You haven’t got a watch.’

  ‘Am I wrong?’

  Edward glimpsed a movement in the mirror as one of the guards looked at his watch.

  ‘Less talk, more action.’

  Which meant he was right. Edward smiled to himself. 18.58. Just over a minute left. He placed the shaver in his light brown toilet bag, zipped it shut and splashed his face one last time. Annoyingly, the new inmate was still standing there, showing no sign of leaving. Edward hated people who couldn’t stick to the proper times. At any second the guards would tell them again, but Edward pre-empted them. He turned around and left the washroom with water dripping from his face. He walked over to the trolley and nodded to the cleaner.

  ‘Evening, Ralph.’

  ‘Evening.’

  ‘What’s the weather like out there?’

  ‘Same as yesterday. Hot.’

  Edward looked at the pile of fresh paper towels with which Ralph would shortly fill up the white plastic holders in the washroom.

  ‘Is it okay if I take a couple of paper towels?’

  Ralph nodded listlessly. ‘Sure.’

  Edward leaned forward and picked up the top three towels. At the same time the guards took a step forward. Their attention was focused on the new inmate. Not Edward.

  18.59.

  ‘Come on, you’ve got one minute!’

  They stood tall, making themselves look big in the doorway just to show who was in charge. Edward ignored them completely. He was already on the way to his cell.

  18.59.30.

  Behind him he heard the guards walk into the washroom. He hoped they would give the guy in there something to think about. Something that hurt. Pain was the best way to learn, he knew that from personal experience. Nothing was more effective than pain. But this was Sweden. They didn’t have the courage to exploit pain in this country. It would probably be a caution, a shortened break or the withdrawal of some other privilege. Hinde was afraid he was going to have to deal with the new guy himself. The guards wouldn’t succeed. He became even more certain when he heard them launch into a loud discussion. He stepped into his cell with the three paper towels.

  Perfect timing.

  19.00.

  The door closed behind him.

  Edward sat down on the bed and carefully placed the paper towels on the bedside table. He loved this moment, when the routines of Lövhaga were replaced by his own. When the time became his. In two hours he would begin. Slowly he picked up the middle paper towel and opened it out, full of anticipation. Below the crease on the inside someone had written in faint pencil: ‘5325 3398 4771’.

  Twelve numbers that represented freedom.

  The last thing on his list was to get hold of Trolle and tell him to put a stop to his investigations. Sebastian had called from work and later from his mobile, but he had heard nothing all day. Now he let the phone ring and ring once more. He was starting to get worried. The mere thought that Torkel might sooner or later get in touch with his former colleague turned his blood to ice. And it would happen. In spite of everything, Trolle Hermansson had been one of the best officers involved in the Hinde case in the nineties. Torkel respected him in many ways. Not as a person, they were too different for that, but as a professional. Whatever you thought about Trolle, there was no denying the fact that he always got results. And Torkel was going to want to speak to him. Particularly if the investigation remained at a standstill. That was the secret of good police work. You turned over one stone after another, prioritised, started with those who appeared to be most closely connected to the investigation, then worked outwards. Further and further from the centre, until you had gone through every possibility. Then you started all over again. Trolle wasn’t the hottest lead, but as time went by a good police officer would reach the conclusion that it might be worthwhile having a chat with him, and Torkel was a good police officer. One of the best, in fact. At some point in the future the Trolle-stone would be turned over. When that happened every dam might suddenly break, everything Sebastian was trying to hide might come cascading out and everything would be destroyed.

  Because Trolle Hermansson couldn’t be trusted.

  After yet another unanswered call, Sebastian decided to go and see him. Just because he wasn’t answering the phone didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t home. Sebastian jumped in a taxi. It was a fraction cooler now, and he opened the window to get a little bit of fresh air. He could see people strolling along in their summery clothes; the city really came to life on these warm nights. Everyone looked so young and happy, all in groups of two or more. What happened to the old and the lonely and the depressed in summer? he wondered as he looked at them.

  He was almost there when he spotted Trolle on the pavement on the other side of the street. He was wearing a big black coat, so he was hard to miss. Most of the people Sebastian had seen on the way hadn’t been wearing coats or jackets, and those who had went for pale colours and light fabrics. Trolle looked as if he were equipped for the worst winter in living memory. Sebastian asked the driver to stop and stuffed a few hundred-kronor notes in his hand. He leapt out of the taxi and ran towards Trolle, who turned into Ekholmsvägen and out of his sight just a few hundred metres up ahead. He seemed to be on his way home. Sebastian ran after him. It was a long time since his heart and legs had worked so hard, and the hint of coolness he had felt in the taxi was long gone. He was sweating and puffing as he rounded the corner of Ekholmsvägen and saw Trolle step in through his doorway. Sebastian stopped to catch his breath. Now he knew where Trolle was, and from a purely tactical point of view he felt it was probably better not to turn up looking sweaty and desperate. He waited a few more minutes, then walked over to the apartment block.

  Trolle opened the door after only two rings. He looked much fresher than the last time they had met, but the apartment behind him was still gloomy, and the same slightly unpleasant smell filtered into the stairwell.

  ‘I saw from the phone that you’d called. I was just about to r
ing you,’ he began, and surprised Sebastian by holding the door open to invite him in.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Evidently. I’m sure nine missed calls must mean something.’

  Sebastian tried to smile disarmingly as he looked around the small, dark space. There were newspapers, clothes and mess lying all over the place. The blinds were closed, no curtains, the walls completely bare. It smelled of cigarettes, dirt and stale rubbish. Trolle showed him into the living room. The television was on with the volume very low; the only illumination was provided by some cookery programme featuring celebrities. The entire complement of furniture was made up of a sofa, on which Trolle appeared to sleep, and a glass table that must once have cost a great deal of money, but now served as a dumping ground for wine bottles, pizza cartons and an overflowing ashtray. The ceiling above the sofa was greasy and nicotine-yellow.

  Trolle turned to Sebastian, noticed his critical expression and flung his arms wide. ‘Welcome to my world. Once upon a time I lived in a white two-storey house in a swanky suburb. Now I live like this. Life is full of surprises, wouldn’t you say?’ Trolle shook his head and looked around, then went over to the sofa and pushed the grubby bedclothes to one side. ‘Sit down. I’ve found something for you. Good stuff.’ He gave a smile which could only be described as malicious. ‘Really good stuff.’

  Sebastian remained standing and shook his head. ‘I don’t want it anymore. I’ve come to ask you to stop digging.’

  ‘Read it first. Before you decide.’ Trolle bent down and picked up a white supermarket carrier bag, stuffed with what appeared to be papers. He held it out to Sebastian. ‘There you go.’

  ‘I don’t want it. Get rid of it.’

  ‘Read it anyway, it’ll only take you about half an hour. Time well spent.’

  Reluctantly Sebastian took the carrier bag. It probably only weighed a few hundred grams, but it felt considerably heavier in his hand.

  ‘Okay. But you have to stop now. I’ll give you the money, and then you have to promise me that you’ll never tell anyone I asked you to do this. You and I have never even met.’

  In spite of the gloom, Sebastian saw a glimmer in Trolle’s eyes. A glimmer of interest. That couldn’t possibly bode well.

  ‘And who would be asking me?’ Trolle looked at him with curiosity. ‘What’s going on, Sebastian?’

  ‘Nothing. I just want you to promise me that you won’t say anything.’

  ‘No problem.’ Trolle shrugged his shoulders. ‘But you know me. Promises mean nothing.’

  ‘I’ll pay you double.’

  Trolle shook his head and turned away from Sebastian with a gusty sigh. ‘I helped you, and now you want to buy me off? Who do you think I am? I thought we were friends.’

  ‘If we’re friends, just promise me you’ll keep quiet. And stick to your word,’ Sebastian countered sourly.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me the truth instead?’

  ‘If anyone finds out about this, it will be a total disaster for me. Total.’ Sebastian gazed pleadingly into Trolle’s implacable eyes.

  ‘Why? Who is she, this Vanja? Why are you following her? Who’s going to start asking questions? I want to know.’ For the first time Trolle looked sincere. ‘Then I’ll stop. But not until then.’

  Sebastian looked at him. He was screwed whichever way he looked at it. If he lied it would end in disaster. Trolle would probably go straight to Vanja out of sheer cussedness. If Sebastian told the truth, he felt as if he would never be safe again. But at least it would give him a little more time.

  ‘So what’s it to be?’

  Sebastian thought frantically. The truth might already be in the white plastic bag. Trolle might already know. If Sebastian lied, it could make things worse. He made up his mind. ‘She’s my daughter. Vanja is my daughter.’

  He saw at once that Trolle hadn’t known.

  But now there was nothing more to hide, so he told Trolle everything.

  All of it.

  When he had finished he felt a kind of peace. He felt lighter. So did the plastic bag. The secrets had been weighing him down more than he realised.

  Trolle looked at him in silence. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said eventually.

  He sank down on the sofa. He seemed to be thinking. He looked up at Sebastian. His tone of voice had changed completely; the teasing note had gone. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you have to let her go. Stop what you’re doing. Things can only end badly.’

  There was a sincerity in Trolle’s words that Sebastian really appreciated. He nodded in agreement. ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Look at me,’ Trolle went on. ‘I didn’t let go. I wouldn’t listen to anyone.’ He paused and looked over at a framed photograph on the windowsill. Two young boys and a girl, and a woman in the middle scribbled out with black ink. ‘Now all I have left is a picture of them.’

  Sebastian didn’t say anything. His expression was sympathetic as he looked at Trolle.

  ‘If you fight too much, you destroy what you have,’ Trolle said quietly, almost to himself.

  Sebastian went over and sat down beside him. He wondered briefly whether he ought to mention that there was a difference between following someone at a distance, and trying to frame your ex-wife’s new boyfriend for possession of Class A drugs and kidnapping your children, but he refrained. Trolle had lowered his guard. He wouldn’t appreciate it if Sebastian exploited the situation.

  ‘I haven’t told anyone else about this,’ he said instead.

  ‘I realise that.’

  What Trolle did next surprised Sebastian. He took his hand. Clasped it in a kind, comforting, intimate grip. They looked at one another. Then Trolle leapt to his feet, his heavy body full of energy again.

  ‘If someone has been following you, as you say, then you’ve just led him to Anna Eriksson.’

  It was obvious when Trolle said it, and yet it hadn’t occurred to Sebastian. When Torkel had said that he perhaps ought to try to warn some of the women he had slept with, he had meant by telephone, of course. But after the conversation with Ursula, Sebastian had become determined to visit them in person, for some reason. Somehow it felt like the least he could do. It had never crossed his mind that someone might still be following him. After almost being run down by the blue Ford outside Riksmord, he had somehow dismissed the idea. The man had been spotted, caught out, it was over. It had never occurred to him that his pursuer might carry on, possibly in a different car.

  ‘Do you think so? But I’ve already warned Anna. She’s planning on leaving town.’

  ‘Was that what you were doing when you were round there this evening?’

  ‘Did you see me?’

  Trolle nodded, but there was something else on his mind. ‘I saw someone else too. I didn’t think about it at the time; I just happened to notice. But now you tell me you’ve been followed . . .’ Trolle didn’t complete the sentence.

  Sebastian began to feel anxious. ‘What? You didn’t think about what?’

  Trolle had gone pale. ‘Twice when I’ve been there and you’ve been there, I’ve seen a man sitting in a blue Ford Focus. I just assumed he was waiting for someone.’

  Sebastian jumped up. ‘That’s him. He’s the one who’s been following me.’

  ‘He was there tonight as well. But in a different car – a silver Japanese job.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Hard to say. He was wearing sunglasses.’

  ‘And a cap?’

  Trolle nodded.

  They ran out to look for a taxi. Sebastian wanted to go straight to Storskärsgatan, but Trolle insisted they make sure they weren’t being followed first. In spite of the fact that they couldn’t see a silver car anywhere, they mustn’t take anything for granted. They found a cab and jumped in the back seat. Trolle directed the driver, changing their destination, making him drive here and there, and once they got into the city centre he insiste
d they use bus and taxi lanes as much as possible. He was constantly checking behind them, and it was half an hour before he was satisfied.

  They were alone.

  Eventually he directed the taxi to Karlaplan, and they walked the last bit.

  Storskärsgatan was deserted. A man with a dog was walking in the park a short distance away, but he was heading in the opposite direction.

  Trolle turned to Sebastian. ‘Stay here. He’ll recognise you.’

  Sebastian wanted to protest, but didn’t know how, so he said nothing. He stared up at the apartment where he knew Anna and Valdemar lived. There was a warm glow from the windows, but he couldn’t see anyone. How could he have led the danger here? He was an idiot!

  ‘Do you understand?’

  Sebastian nodded without taking his eyes off the apartment. Trolle looked calm. His eyes were sparkling; Sebastian had never seen him so alive, so focused.

  ‘I’ll check up there too, I promise,’ said Trolle.

  Sebastian withdrew into the shadows by one of the buildings on the corner and watched him go; he was glad he had confided in his former colleague. Trolle walked slowly along the short street. He looked as if he was out for an evening stroll, but Sebastian could see that he was carefully checking every car he passed. Sebastian looked up at the apartment again. Suddenly felt the weight of the carrier bag in his left hand. Trolle had refused to take it back, so Sebastian had had no alternative but to take it with him.

  It was strange how quickly things could change. A few days ago Sebastian’s only aim had been to hurt the two people living up there. Now he wanted to save them. He saw a bin a few metres away and was about to go over and throw the bag away when he saw Trolle heading back towards him, on the other side of the street this time. He was ambling along and chatting on the phone, but he was still checking every car. As he came closer Sebastian was able to pick up snippets of the conversation.

  ‘I understand that, and of course if you’re happy with your pension provision, then . . . Okay, thank you. Goodbye.’ He ended the call and slipped his phone in his pocket as he walked past Sebastian.