A car crash can be a terrible thing, but she had survived, after all. She got out OK.
Now he could see how fragile she was. Her aged body was still frightened, still flinched instinctively, always expecting violence and pain.
Some times were better than others, and sometimes they lived almost normally, but then she would fall into a deep hole, and it had been impossible for her to take care of him.
He feels so incredibly sorry for his mother.
Even though he knows there’s no point, he has tracked down Carl-Erik Ritter in order to be able to look into his eyes. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe DJ doesn’t even need to ask Ritter if he ever thinks about what he did, if he has any idea of the suffering he caused.
While Carl-Erik Ritter’s life went on, the rape condemned his mother to a life of recurrent depression and multiple suicide attempts.
Ritter might deny everything. The event is buried deep in the past, and the statute of limitations on the crime has long since passed. But DJ can still tell him that he knows what happened.
Since Ritter has nothing to fear legally he may even be prepared to talk.
He turns over the picture and looks at the face again.
David Jordan knows that the meeting probably won’t grant him any relief, but he can’t stop thinking about it. He needs to face his mother’s attacker.
31
It’s almost eleven o’clock at night, and a cold wind is blowing around the flat buildings near Axelsberg metro station. David Jordan crosses the square, heading for a neighbourhood bar, El Bocado, where Carl-Erik Ritter goes most evenings.
DJ tries to breathe calmly. He knows that emotional turbulence can trigger a narcoleptic attack, but the pills he took back at home ought to keep him awake for several more hours.
On the other side of the square a drunk man is shouting at his dog.
The urban landscape is dominated by hulking tower blocks and a red-brick shopping centre.
He glances at the newsstand, the hair salon and the dry-cleaner’s next to the bar.
Black mesh is visible behind the newsstand’s window, along with a faded poster advertising a big lottery jackpot.
Two women in their forties finish smoking outside the hairdresser’s and go back inside the bar.
Heavy traffic thunders past on the overpass above the square, and old McDonald’s wrappers swirls around an overflowing dustbin.
David Jordan takes a deep breath, opens the door to the bar and walks into the gloom and hubbub. The air smells like fried food and damp clothes. The whitewashed walls above the booths and tables are cluttered with old garden tools and paraffin lamps. An illuminated green emergency exit sign hangs from the low ceiling, and cables running from the dusty stereo are taped to the beams.
Two couples are sitting at a table by the door having a loud argument.
Under a little tiled roof a group of middle-aged customers is lined up along the tatty bar, drinking and talking. A yellowing sign advertises the full menu, as well as a special offer on meals for pensioners.
David Jordan asks for a bottle of Grolsch and pays cash. He takes a first, soothing swig and watches as a man with a ponytail tries to show an older woman something on his phone.
A man wipes beer from his lips and laughs at another man trying on a pair of sunglasses.
DJ turns and looks the other way, and finds himself staring at the man he has come here to see.
He recognises him immediately from the photograph.
Carl-Erik Ritter is sitting at the back of the room with one hand around a beer glass. He’s wearing a pair of worn jeans and a knitted sweater with holes at the elbows.
DJ picks up his beer and pushes his way through the crowd, apologising as he goes. He stops at the last table.
‘OK if I sit down?’ he asks, sliding into a chair across from Carl-Erik Ritter.
The man looks up slowly and peers at him with watery eyes, but doesn’t answer. DJ’s heart is beating way too fast. A dangerous tiredness sweeps over him and the bottle comes close to slipping from his hand.
DJ closes his eyes for a moment, then puts the bottle down on the table.
‘Are you Carl-Erik Ritter?’ he asks.
‘I was the last time someone tried to borrow money for a drink,’ the man replies gruffly.
‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Good luck,’ the man says. He drinks some beer and puts the glass down, but doesn’t remove his hand.
Carl-Erik has eaten steak: the plate it was served on is next to his glass, bearing traces of mashed potato and half a grilled tomato. An empty shot-glass with a dark residue is standing by the napkin-holder.
DJ takes out a photograph of his mother and puts it down on the table in front of him. It’s an old picture. In it she’s eighteen years old, wearing a pale tunic-dress, smiling brightly at the camera.
‘Do you remember her?’ DJ asks when he’s sure his voice isn’t going to break.
‘Listen,’ Carl-Erik Ritter says, raising his chin. ‘I just want to sit here and drink myself into oblivion in peace. Is that too much to ask?’
Carl-Erik tips the last drops from the shot-glass into his beer.
‘Look at the picture,’ DJ asks.
‘Leave me alone. You hear?’ the man says slowly.
‘Do you remember what you did?’ DJ asks. His voice is getting shrill. ‘Admit that you—’
‘What the hell are you saying?’ Carl-Erik Ritter exclaims, and slams his fist down on the table. ‘You can’t just show up here and throw accusations at me!’
The barman glances at them over the top of the stereo.
DJ knows he has to calm down. He can’t get into a fight, that could rebound on Rex, and they can’t afford any bad publicity right now.
Carl-Erik’s hand is trembling as he holds the empty shot-glass over his beer again. His fingernails are filthy, and he’s missed a patch on the side of one cheek when he was shaving.
‘I’m not here to cause trouble,’ DJ says quietly, moving his bottle aside. ‘I’d just like to ask—’
‘Leave me the hell alone, I said!’
A man at the next table looks at them as he unwraps two sugar cubes and puts them in his mouth.
‘I just want to know if it’s ever occurred to you that you ruined her life,’ DJ says, doing his best to fight back tears.
Carl-Erik leans back. The neck of his shirt is dirty, his face is wrinkled and ruddy, and his eyes are little more than slits.
‘You’ve got no damn right to come in here and throw accusations at me,’ he repeats in a rasping voice.
‘OK. I know who you are. I’ve seen you, and you got what you deserved,’ DJ says, and stands up.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Carl-Erik slurs.
David Jordan turns his back on him and pushes his way towards the door. He hears the man calling gruffly to him to come back.
DJ’s whole body is shaking by the time he emerges into the square again. It’s dark, and the air is cool on his face.
There are a few people standing outside the ICA supermarket on the other side of the square.
DJ starts to cough, and stops outside the hairdresser’s, resting his forehead against the glass. He tries to breathe calmly. He knows he should go home, but he can’t help thinking that he’d just like to lie down for a while.
‘Come back here!’ Carl-Erik Ritter shouts as he comes stumbling out after him.
Without bothering to reply DJ starts walking again, but stops outside the dry-cleaner’s and reaches out for the wall with one hand. He stares at a mannequin wearing a white dress in the window. He hears footsteps behind him.
‘I want you to apologise,’ Carl-Erik Ritter shouts.
David Jordan suddenly loses all strength. He leans his forehead against the cool window and struggles to stay on his feet. Sweat is dripping down his back, and his neck feels too weak to bear the weight of his head.
A bus passes on the overpass.
Carl-Erik
is drunk, and staggers as he grabs the lapels of David’s coat and pulls him towards him.
‘Don’t do that,’ DJ says, trying to pry his fingers off.
‘Kiss my hand and apologise,’ Ritter snarls.
DJ tries to bring the argument to an end, but a train thunders past, drowning him out, so he has to repeat himself.
‘I’m sick. I need to go home and …’
Carl-Erik grabs him by the head and tries to force it down to kiss his hand. They stumble backwards together, and DJ can smell the sweat of the other man’s body.
‘I want a fucking apology!’ he yells, yanking at DJ’s hair.
David pushes him off and tries to walk away, but Carl-Erik grabs his coat again and hits him from behind.
‘That’s enough!’ DJ shouts as he spins around and pushes the man in the chest.
Carl-Erik takes two steps backwards, loses his balance and crashes into the shop window. The glass breaks behind him and he tumbles into the dry-cleaner’s.
Large shards crash out into the square, shattering on the pavement.
David Jordan hurries over and tries to help him to his feet. Carl-Erik lurches forward and clutches at the glass with one hand. One side gives out beneath him and he falls to his knees. His neck slides across a protruding piece of glass.
Blood sprays up onto the mannequin’s white dress and the yellowing poster advertising a special offer on shirts.
His jugular vein has been severed.
Carl-Erik pushes himself up with a groan and falls back onto his hip. The glass breaks beneath him. Dark blood is pulsing out from the wound in his neck, pouring down his body. He’s bellowing and coughing and tossing his head around, trying to get away from the pain and panic.
David Jordan tries to stem the flow of blood, and shouts across the square for someone to call an ambulance.
Carl-Erik collapses onto his back and tries to push David’s hands away.
Blood spreads out across the pavement in front of the building.
Ritter’s body shakes as he throws his head back and forth.
He stares at DJ, opens his mouth and a quivering bubble of blood appears between his lips.
His legs twitch as the pool of blood spreads out beneath him and seeps towards a rusty manhole cover.
32
Rex is listening to Wilhelm Stenhammar’s three fantasies for piano as he empties the dishwasher. Earlier that evening he was at TV4, recording a conversation about his friendship with the Foreign Minister.
He has never felt like such a fraud in his life, but after the piece aired he received a torrent of positive responses on social media.
Sammy is at a concert at Debaser, but has promised to be home by two o’clock at the latest. Rex is afraid to go to bed before his son is back. Wearily he fills a pot to boil water for tea and tries to suppress his anxiety. His phone rings. He sees that it’s DJ and answers at once.
‘What did you think of the interview?’ Rex asks. ‘I felt like—’
‘Is Sammy home?’ DJ interrupts.
‘No, he’s—’
‘Can I come up?’
‘Are you nearby?’
‘I’m sitting in the car outside.’
Only now does Rex notice the odd tone in his friend’s voice, and starts to worry that he’s brought bad news.
‘What happened?’
‘Can I come up for a little bit?’
‘Of course,’ Rex says.
He goes downstairs and unlocks the front door, then opens it as soon as he hears the lift stop on the landing outside.
Rex gasps and takes a step back when he sees DJ standing in the bright light.
David Jordan’s arms, chest, face and beard are covered in blood.
‘Christ!’ Rex exclaims. ‘What happened?’
DJ comes in and closes the door behind him. His eyes are glassy and blank.
‘It’s not my blood,’ he says tersely. ‘It was an accident … I’ll tell you, I just need …’
‘You scared the shit out of me.’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have come … I think I’m probably in shock.’
DJ leans against the door as he takes his shoes off, leaving a bloody handprint on the wood.
‘What on earth happened?’
‘I don’t know how it ended up … or rather, it’s complicated, but I ended up getting into an argument with a drunk. He came outside after me, then fell and cut himself.’
He looks up at Rex sheepishly.
‘I think he was hurt badly.’
‘How badly?’
DJ closes his eyes and Rex sees that he even has blood on his eyelids and lashes.
‘Sorry to drag you into this,’ DJ whispers. ‘I’m supposed to keep you out of anything like … Shit …’
‘Just tell me what happened.’
DJ doesn’t answer. He walks past Rex into the guest bathroom and starts to wash his hands. The red water fades to pink as hundreds of droplets hit the white tiles behind the tap.
DJ uses a wad of toilet paper to wipe his face. He flushes it, looks at himself in the mirror, sighs heavily and turns to Rex.
‘I panicked. I don’t know, it made sense at the time. I just walked away and got in the car when I heard the ambulance.’
‘That’s not great,’ Rex says quietly.
‘I just didn’t want … I didn’t want it to affect you,’ he tries to explain. ‘It can’t, not when we’re getting new backers, not now that everything’s really moving along.’
‘I know, but …’
‘Lyra’s at home,’ he goes on. ‘I didn’t know where I could go, so I came here.’
‘We’ll figure out what to do,’ Rex says, rubbing his face.
‘I might as well call the police and explain I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t my fault,’ he says, and starts to search for his phone in his pockets.
‘Hang on,’ Rex says. ‘Tell me all about it. Let’s go upstairs.’
‘Why does everything have to be so complicated? I just went to a bar in Axelsberg and …’
‘What on earth were you doing out there?’
DJ slumps into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. The pot boiled dry a while ago, and the kitchen smells like hot metal.
‘Sometimes I just need to go somewhere where I don’t know anyone,’ DJ explains.
‘I can understand that,’ Rex says, putting fresh water in the pot.
‘But there was a silly argument and I walked out,’ DJ says, sliding his elbows across the table. ‘The drunk followed me and wanted to fight, and in the end he fell into a shop window and cut himself.’
DJ sits back again and tries to breathe more slowly. There are streaks of blood on the table from the sleeves of his jacket.
‘And now there’s blood here,’ DJ says. ‘We need to wipe it off before Sammy gets home.’
‘He’ll probably be out half the night.’
‘I think there’s a lot of blood in the car as well,’ DJ whispers.
‘I’ll go down and take a look while you take a shower,’ Rex says.
‘No, what if someone sees you? You need to stay out of this. I’ll take care of the car tomorrow when Lyra’s at art college.’
Rex sits down across from DJ.
‘I still don’t get it,’ he says. ‘You were fighting? A proper fight?’
DJ’s eyes are shiny and bloodshot.
‘Look, he was drunk, staggering around. He kept telling me to go back in … and I was trying to fend him off when he stumbled into the window.’
‘How bad was it?’
‘He cut his neck. I’m not sure he’s going to make it. There was …’
‘But if the ambulance got there quickly?’
‘There was an awful lot of blood,’ DJ concludes.
‘So what are we going to do?’ Rex asks. ‘Do we just hope no one saw you?’
‘No one in the bar knew me, and the square was pretty dark.’
Rex nods and tries to think clearly.
‘You
need to take a shower,’ he says. ‘I’ll get you some clothes … put everything in the washing machine and get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll see if there’s anything about it online yet.’
‘OK, thanks,’ DJ whispers.
Rex gets the bleach out and sprays the table and chair where DJ was sitting. He uses paper towels to wipe it off, then goes downstairs and cleans the bloodstained doorpost, the door-handle of the guest bathroom, the tap, the sink and the tiles behind it. He goes back upstairs, wiping the banister as he goes, then leaves the bleach and paper towels in the middle of the table so he doesn’t forget to clean the shower and washing machine once DJ has finished.
He takes out a bottle of Highland Park and a tumbler for DJ, then checks the news on his phone. There’s nothing about any fight or accident matching what DJ said.
Maybe it’s not as bad as he thought.
If the man had died, the news would be out there by now.
33
The prison warden has granted Joona’s application for a thirty-six-hour leave.
Joona reaches the end of the underground tunnel. The prison guard in front of him hesitates for a few seconds, then raises his hand and opens the door. They walk through, wait until the lock clicks, then walk to another door and wait for central command to authorise their progress into the next section.
Just as Joona had predicted, Salim Ratjen concluded that Joona was his only chance to get a message out before Wednesday. Ratjen’s message seems to consist of little more than a telephone number and a name, but it could still be coded authorisation for a murder.
After retrieving his belongings, Joona is led to Central Command by another guard.
His suit fitted him perfectly at his trial two years ago, but since then Joona has spent four hours a day exercising and now it’s too tight across the shoulders.
The lock whirrs and he opens the door and leaves the huge wall behind him.
A familiar pain behind his left eye flares up as he starts to walk across the asphalt. The electric fence with its coil of barbed wire is the last obstacle before freedom. Tall floodlights rise up ahead of him, their white pylons standing out against the steely grey sky.
He resists the temptation to walk faster, and finds himself thinking back to when he was a child, following his dad through the forest to fish for char.